The poem
In spring and summer winds may blow, And rains fall after, hard and fast; The tender leaves, if beaten low, Shine but the more for shower and blast
But when their fated hour arrives, When reapers long have left the field, When maidens rifle turn'd-up hives, And their last juice fresh apples yield,
A leaf perhaps may still remain Upon some solitary tree, Spite of the wind and of the rain . . . A thing you heed not if you see.
At last it falls. Who cares? Not one: And yet no power on earth can ever Replace the fallen leaf upon Its spray, so easy to dissever.
If such be love, I dare not say. Friendship is such, too well I know: I have enjoyed my summer day; 'Tis past; my leaf now lies below.