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.
The sun is set, and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Now fades the last streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.Tennyson
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