Leaves

On the dry brown bough The withered leaves still cling In their last desperate hold And ceaseless murmuring. They push the swinging branch To beat upon the pane; 'Save us,' they whispering cry— 'We shall not live again!' She laughs in pretty play, The child beside my chair, 'Look at the linden tree! The leaves are dancing there. 'Are swaying on the branch, Are singing in their glee; The little song I hear Is, ‘I am glad to be.’' At night when she doth rest From all her laughing hours, And plays in dreamy vales With everlasting flowers. I hear the withered leaves Beat loud upon the pane, 'Save us,' they screaming cry— 'We shall not live again!' What grief within my breast Beats to the tapping call? Deep in my heart I hear The rustling of their fall.