I have seen a lovely thing
Stark before a whip of weather:
The tree that was so wistful after spring
Beating barren twigs together.
The birds that came there one by one,
The sensuous leaves that used to sway
And whisper there at night, all are gone,
Each has vanished in its way.
And this whip is on my heart;
There is no sound that it allows,
No little song that I may start
But I hear the beating of dead boughs.
In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying ;
And when I came into my garden.
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch.
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
The white snows of Winter
Follow the falling of leaves ;
Therefore
I have had your portrait cut
In snow-white jade.
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight ;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves ;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves.
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park.
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces.
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war.
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers.
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate.
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box.
For I have time for nothing
Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water,
And the croaking of frogs —
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.
The branches of the trees lie in layers
Above and behind each other.
And the sun strikes on the outstanding leaves
And turns them white.
And they dance like a splatter of pebbles
Against a green wall.
The trees make a solid path leading up in the air.
It looks as though I could walk upon it
If I only had courage to step out of the window.
The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house
Are rusty and broken.
Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees,
The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes
Sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp
Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.
Even the cat will not stay with me,
But prefers the rain
Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.
Listen . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.