"Come, little leaves," Said the wind one day, "Come to the meadows With me and play; Put on your dresses Of red and gold, For summer is past, And the days grow cold."
Soon as the leaves Heard the wind's loud call, Down they came fluttering, One and all. Over the meadows They danced and flew, All singing the soft Little songs they knew.
The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness---
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Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
The leaves are green, the nuts are brown,
They hang so high they won't come down.
Leave them alone till frosty weather,
Then they will all come down together.