Autumnal Fog
The young cloud is on the field;
running along roiling winds;
a slow drizzle falls to wield,
my thyme, sages and mints;
The young field calls his loves;
counting dawn's wild flow'rs,
north wind, trails two doves;
that fly to reach away stars;
My old friends came to the bog;
like drops of this rain's dew;
and they found Autumnal fog;
that spread for me and just a few.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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