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61
WHY?
East winds, allying
With autumn austere,
Drive beauty, dying,
Into the mere.
Under the shrill blasts
Chilling the warm blood,
A woman with wrinkles,
Back-bent and doubled,
Is gathering firewood,
Her limbs palsy-troubled.
Woman with wrinkles,
Why art thou here,
And beauty lying
Drowned in the mere?
