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by John B. Tabb

Behold, the fleeting swallow
Forsakes the frosty air;
And leaves, alert to follow,
Are falling everywhere,
Like wounded birds, too weak
A distant clime to seek.

And soon, with silent pinions,
The fledglings of the North
From winter's wild dominions
Shall drift, aftrighted, forth,
And, phantom-like, anon
Pursue the phantoms gone.

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