Classic Poem

It is deep afternoon, Elspeth, the wind has gone.
The poplar is a green water under the dawn
With a shiver of silver turning the smooth green.
The dead leaves are crumpled into gold on the green,
The dead leaves that are crushed into sound as we pass,
Like the swish of a long scythe through the summer grass.

The wise have held that only sorrow makes us wise;
So I think, and when I look into your gracious eyes,
That I must surely be the foolishest man alive.
Is it not brave, Elspeth, brave but to be alive?
The wind is back and changing the lights in your hair.
See how the maple shakes its red mane in the air.