The sky’s own purple pall,
the garden’s russet veiling …
Who will reveal, recall,
that twain woe, stifled, ailing
under their dense-knit gauze
in billows undulating
as dying breezes pause,
like a hand, missives writing
on tissue, pardons airing,
before it falls, cools finally …
By autumn yet, preparing
to give myrrh, handed kindly
to salve that shrouding bloody
and lift that fusty screening,
in time for Christmas, ready
in land snow-scented, gleaming?
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