These dried leaves,
Golden and brown and red,
Scattered on the parklands,
And on the grimacing street;
That whisper and rustle and spell
A Future, a mystery tell:
Sweep them away, these dry leaves!
On the wind they whisk,
In a detour frisk,
They group and trouble together:
They whirl and they frolic,
In circles magic,
Like witches about some bother.
Gather them up, they seem to steal
On today, like horrors long forgotten!
The dried leaves of years, and rustling fears,
And tears that make bright hues sodden.
Where the laugh and the shout,
The tints bright and clear?
Instead, flight and rout,
Rowan and seer:
Gather them up in armfuls, these dead leaves,
That once in the bud were so dear!
Gather them up: the gardener is building
A pyre to consume these multi tree-children,
These light ones, green suited,
These gay galloping princes,
Charioteers of the springtime,
Unsaddled by autumn lances.
Gather them up!
Then close press to your bosom,
Ever so tightly, each winsome frail phantom.
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