It was great autumnal November: the mountain forests were quilted with dry brown leaves. They blew about the streets of Altamont, they were deep in lane and gutter, they scampered dryly along before the wind.
Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
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She herself had had a deep sense of poetry; she remembered going to sleep with Shelley under her pillow.
The Last September, Elizabeth Bowen
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I want what world there is behind your eyes
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