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REJECTED.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

THROUGH the woods we walk together,

Dark-eyed Isabel and I;

It is pleasant autumn weather,

Withered leaves are floating by.

And I tell the old, old story,

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As we two together stray

Through the gay leaves' golden glory,

For my hopes are bright as they.

But the chilly wind returning

Through the branches sighs and grieves,

And my hopes, though bright and burning,

Are, alas, but withered leaves.

FEZ.

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