from The Fall of the Leaf
Far in
the woods these golden days
Some leaf obeys its maker’s call,
And through their hollow aisles it plays
With delicate touch the prelude of the fall.
Gently
withdrawing from its stem
It lightly lays itself along,
Where the same hand hath pillowed them
Resigned to sleep upon the old year’s throng.
The
loneliest birch is brown and sere,
The farthest pool is strewn with leaves,
Which float upon their watery bier,
Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.
I marked
when first the wind grew rude
Each leaf curled like a living thing,
As if with the ripe air it would
Secure some faint memorial of the spring.
Then
for its sake it turned a boat
And dared new elements to brave,
A painted palace which did float
A summer’s hoarded wealth to save.
--Henry David Thoreau
No comments:
Post a Comment