Dead Leaves in Spring

These beech leaves in their courses
Are like withered sea-horses;
They do not change at once
To fibrous skeletons;
Brown and brittle and thin
They keep a sun-tanned skin.

Stuck at a rabbit's bury
They peer a moment and scurry,
As though they frightened were
And loved the sunny air
And glistening grass that waves
More than dark gaping graves.

So they rattle and run
Before the wind and the sun
And when, as dancers do,
They pause a minute or two
It is the wind falls slack,
Not any breath they lack.
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