Classic Poem

In you, frail leaf,
The lone and last on yonder tree,
Methinks, revealed, I clearly see
The life that's pure, — its harmony
And golden sheaf.

And, though you wear
A pensive look, I still can trace
A saintly smile upon your face,
Betokening faith, — a work of grace
That cheers despair.

To life's last bound,
Though tremulous has been your flight,
Still you have won a crown that's bright,
And, clad in gems, oft danced at night
A giddy round, —

Danced to the sigh
Of zephyr's lute, 'mid summer air;
Nor dreamed that you were doomed to share
A frosty kiss, so calm and fair
Appeared the sky.

But now, grown old,
'Tis yours to fall as fell your peers,
And mingle with the dust of seers;
Yet live again, and in far years
New charms unfold.

'Twas but the breath
Of vernal hours that quickened you:
'Tis but a breath divine and true
That quickens man, and will renew
His life in death.