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John Milton

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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Line 1.

 
John Milton

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The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere —
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year.

 
Edgar Allan Poe
 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

 
William Cullen Bryant
 

When the night-wind bewaileth the fall of the year,
And sweeps from the forest the leaves that are sere;
I wake from my slumber and list to the roar
And it saith to my spirit, "No more, never more!"

 
Epes Sargent
 

Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him; so he was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself.
She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.

 
J. M. Barrie
 

On the pavement
of my trampled soul
the steps of madmen
weave the prints of rude crude words.

 
Vladimir Mayakovsky
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