Parerga/Withered Leaves

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WITHERED LEAVES.

Down from the lank elm trees The crisping wrinkled leavesAre fluttering in the breeze Round the Cathedral eaves.
To the dead heaps below With vainly eddying wingReluctantly they go, Like souls to life that cling.
But Autumn's morning sky In fathomless gulfs of blueSmiles freshly on the eye, With loving, hoping hue.
The season fitteth well This place of rest to tread,And bid the spirit dwell On the time-sever'd dead.
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Yes, the departing year Speaks both to frame and mind,Its visible objects bear A deeper truth behind.
The wither'd leaves beneath, The bright blue sky above;All that we know of death, All that we hope of love.
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