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,
Where lucent was their sylvan dress
And lightsome was their tread,
They rot below the bitter snow,
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!