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Now it’s October, the year closes down;
some leaf, some fruit, some sense of growing old,
a day of warmth, and then a day of cold.

Socrates was said to be serene,
taking hemlock. While friends considered what would come
he rested on a bench, his instep going numb.

And if the wind were spilling from a cup,
first ears and lips, then hands and breast
would fail; could we inhale and savour such a test

in equanimity, agreed to retire—
lovers who, turned toward the deepened park,
pockets chestnut filled, enlarge upon the dark.

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