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The Falling Leaf
Fall, yellow leaf, for thy brief work is done!
The work for which thy beauteous form was made;
No more thou'lt glisten in the morning sun,
No more thou'lt darken with the evening shade.
The work for which thy beauteous form was made;
No more thou'lt glisten in the morning sun,
No more thou'lt darken with the evening shade.
Thy work is done! No more the parent tree
Shall need thy aid, for winter-time is near;
No more upon its boughs thy form we'll see,
Through the long winter months to charm and cheer.
Shall need thy aid, for winter-time is near;
No more upon its boughs thy form we'll see,
Through the long winter months to charm and cheer.
But though thy work is done, to outward sight,
And thou art trodden 'neath the feet of men;
Still to the memory thou shalt bring delight,
And in thy beauty seem to live again.
And thou art trodden 'neath the feet of men;
Still to the memory thou shalt bring delight,
And in thy beauty seem to live again.
Thy work can never cease, while thought shall bring
Some pleasant memories of days gone by;
When wandering in the woods, in early spring,
Thy brilliant green first caught the admiring eye.
Some pleasant memories of days gone by;
When wandering in the woods, in early spring,
Thy brilliant green first caught the admiring eye.
Or when, in Summer, from the glare and heat
We've sought the shelter of the quiet grove;
And found, beneath its shade, a cool retreat,
To pass the sultry hours with friends we love.
We've sought the shelter of the quiet grove;
And found, beneath its shade, a cool retreat,
To pass the sultry hours with friends we love.
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Or when, in Autumn, midst her changing bowers,
I mused upon the lessons, which they taught;
Forgetful of the swiftly passing hours,
Lost in a dream of sweet, yet solemn thought.
I mused upon the lessons, which they taught;
Forgetful of the swiftly passing hours,
Lost in a dream of sweet, yet solemn thought.
Thy work shall never cease, while thou shalt be
A thought the springs of memory to controul,
A power the mind of man from sense to free,
A joy and teaching to the deathless soul!
A thought the springs of memory to controul,
A power the mind of man from sense to free,
A joy and teaching to the deathless soul!
Poem No. 111; c. 8 November 1862
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