Nothing But Leaves

The leaves that shaded us so well

     All through the summer’s heat,

Are tumbling through the air pell-mell,

     And falling at our feet.

‘Tis as a youthful life cut down,

     Each leaf that falls to ground;

Tho’ useful be they dry and brown –

     Methinks I hear the sound

Of red-cheeked boys along the farms,

     In careless, noisy mirth,

With sacks of dried leaves in their arms

     And tumbling to the earth.

Yes, tumbling, pelting, pitching o’er

     Each other in the heap;

Then bearing home a winter’s store

     To where the cattle sleep.

And as I hear them in their glee,

     My old heart sorely grieves,

To think that I no more will be

     Pitched headlong in the leaves.

Sept. 30, ‘92

Pub. in

Conn. Valley

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