Leaves

The time is autumn, and the leaves
Take any wind to float them down
Unnoticed through the country lanes,
Raked up for burning in the town.

A lavish April swelled their pride
And made them scornful of the tree,
So autumn finds them quick to fade,
And when they fall, fall heavily.

But early, hasty flight has lost
Them sheen of color winter brings;
Their surface color beds in green
Too callow to abide the frost.

Why bring them home? We know that they
Were only hurried by a breeze;
Poor motleys, they will soon be lonely
In patterns of yesterday.

And yet when summer woods were lush
They tapped the earth through trunk and stem,
And from the sky the dew entrapped
When full moons waked the liquid thrush.

And from high boughs all day looked down
On stream that bled to fill the sea;
Or up at shape of cloudy dream;
And this seems curious to me.

There is no leaf on any bough
That grieves now with the voice of streams,
Or fixes color that retrieves
Midsummer and its fluxing dreams—

There is no leaf from April glee
Caught strength to wait till winter came
To take full color breadth by length—
No, not a leaf on any tree!

And so these early autumn leaves
On every wind are floating down,
Unheeded through the country lanes,
Raked up for burning in the town.