If Only This

The air it seems is napping, It is quiet as a death— The whispered wheeze of evening, Muted as the final breath. Like the hushful stir of shadow, Sleeping reticent, and shy— The quiescence of a foggy night, Lifeless as an empty sky. As soundless as a snowflake Landing lightly on a hill— Just as silent as a moonbeam, And every bit as still. How grand would be a wisp if wind, How delightful too, the sound— If only this, an autumn leaf As it lights upon the ground.