As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips,

The sad trees rustle in chill misery,

A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips,

That move and murmur incoherently;

As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing,

With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door,

So many low soft masses for the dying

Sweet leaves that live no more.

Here I will sit upon this naked stone,

Draw my coat closer with my numbèd hands,

And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan,

And send my heart out to the ashen lands;

[Pg 24]

And I will ask myself what golden madness,

What balmèd breaths of dreamland spicery,

What visions of soft laughter and light sadness

Were sweet last month to me.

The dry dead leaves flit by with thin wierd tunes,

Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed,

Graven in mystic markings with strange runes,

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