Out of an autumn hour that cools and glasses
Into the cask of autumns gone before,
I shall remember tall and silken grasses
Slurring their yellows down a misty shore.
There, will be water cold and green and crawling,
Sand like the dead-white upturned breast of a loon;
And over, dusk in a long gold feather falling,
And brown sails blowing secrets at the moon.
There, will be sound of leaves like thin coins tinkled
Into the careless coffers of the night,
And where the moving waves are caught and crinkled
I shall remember last, in the lemon light,
Three wild ducks flying windward, dark and frail,
Like three charmed princes in a fairy tale.
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