10 Best Famous Leafs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Leafs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Leafs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Leafs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of leafs poems.

• All Famous Leafs Poems

 Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

 O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---
Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---
If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---
If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---
If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---
If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---
If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!

 In the high leaves of a walnut, 
On the very topmost boughs, 
A boy that climbed the branching bole 
His cradled limbs would house.

On the airy bed that rocked him 
Long, idle hours he'd lie 
Alone with white clouds sailing 
The warm blue of the sky.

I remember not what his dreams were; 
But the scent of a leaf's enough 
To house me higher than those high boughs 
In a youth he knew not of,

In a light that no day brings now 
But none can spoil or smutch, 
A magic that I felt not then 
And only now I touch.

 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!

The trees rise tall and taller, lifted
On a subtle rush of cool grey flame
That issuing out of the dawn has sifted
    The spirit from each leaf's frame.

For the trailing, leisurely rapture of life
Drifts dimly forward, easily hidden
By bright leaves uttered aloud, and strife
    Of shapes in the grey mist chidden.

The grey, phosphorescent, pellucid advance
Of the luminous purpose of God, shines out
Where the lofty trees athwart stream chance
    To shake flakes of its shadow about.

The subtle, steady rush of the whole
Grey foam-mist of advancing God,
As He silently sweeps to His somewhere, his goal,
    Is heard in the grass of the sod.

Is heard in the windless whisper of leaves
In the silent labours of men in the fields,
In the downward dropping of flimsy sheaves
    Of cloud the rain skies yield.

In the tapping haste of a fallen leaf,
In the flapping of red-roof smoke, and the small
Foot-stepping tap of men beneath
    These trees so huge and tall.

For what can all sharp-rimmed substance but catch
In a backward ripple, God's purpose, reveal
For a moment His mighty direction, snatch
    A spark beneath His wheel.

Since God sweeps onward dim and vast,
Creating the channelled vein of Man
And Leaf for His passage, His shadow is cast
    On all for us to scan.

Ah listen, for Silence is not lonely:
Imitate the magnificent trees
That speak no word of their rapture, but only
    Breathe largely the luminous breeze.

When the autumn roses
  Are heavy with dew,
Before the mist discloses
  The leaf's brown hue,
You would, among the laughing hills
  Of yesterday
Walk innocent in the daffodils,
Coiffing up your auburn hair
In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare
To catch and keep me with you there
  So far away.

When from the autumn roses
  Trickles the dew,
When the blue mist uncloses
  And the sun looks through,
You from those startled hills
  Come away,
Out of the withering daffodils;
Thoughtful, and half afraid,
Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid
And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid
  Who was scared in her play.

When in the autumn roses
  Creeps a bee,
And a trembling flower encloses
  His ecstasy,
You from your lonely walk
  Turn away,
And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk,
Wait among the beeches
For your late bee who beseeches
To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches,
  Your heart of dismay.