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ALL I KNOW
Evensong



The late sun leaving in the trees an orange-red,
A soft honey fire. There has been no breath of wind
In fifteen days; leaves hang gold and gorgeous
In the woods, and through them the deer tread
Patched with light, wary. The year begins to die;
The rowans hang in blood-red clutches, every day
The ripe sun is lower in the sky. Is this what it must be?...

Taken from Evensong Poems by Kenneth Steven

Publisher: SPCK - view more
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