Leaves

The leaves are falling one and one, Each like a life to me, As over-soonly in the sun They spiral goldenly: So airily and warily They falter free. The leaves are falling two and two, Beneath a baleful sky; So silently the sward they strew, Reluctantly they die . . . Rich crimson leaves,--and no one grieves There doom but I. The leaves are falling three and three Beneath the mothlike moon; They flutter downward silverly In muted rigadoon; And russet dry remote they lie From feathered tune. The leaves are lying numberless, Disconsolately dead; Where lucent was their sylvan dress And lightsome was their tread, They rot below the bitter snow, Uncomforted. A leaf's a life, and one by one They drift each darkling day; Rare friends who lusted in the sun Are frailing fast away . . . How sadly soon will mourn the moon My dark decay!