Leaves

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,
        Disconsolately dead;
Where lucent was their sylvan dress
        And lightsome was their tread,
They rot below the bitter snow,
        Uncomforted.

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!