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.
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