Leaves

 The leaves are falling one and one,
 Each like a life to me,
As over-soonly in the sun
 They spiral goldenly:
So airily and warily
 They falter free.


The leaves are falling two and two,
 Beneath a baleful sky;
So silently the sward they strew,
 Reluctantly they die .
 .
 .

Rich crimson leaves,--and no one grieves
 There doom but I.


The leaves are falling three and three
 Beneath the mothlike moon;
They flutter downward silverly
 In muted rigadoon;
And russet dry remote they lie
 From feathered tune.


The leaves are lying numberless,
 Disconsolately dead;
Where lucent was their sylvan dress
 And lightsome was their tread,
They rot below the bitter snow,
 Uncomforted.


A leaf's a life, and one by one
 They drift each darkling day;
Rare friends who lusted in the sun
 Are frailing fast away .
 .
 .
 
How sadly soon will mourn the moon
 My dark decay!

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