November Night
Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey
Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.
A single word opens the poem: listen. The speaker invites you into a moment of complete stillness, asking you to pay attention to a sound so subtle you might otherwise miss it. The leaves are brittle from frost, and as they detach and drift down, they make a faint, dry rustle.
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