Classic Poem

The dead leaves their mosaics
Of olive and gold and brown
Had laid on the rain-wet pavement
Through all the embowered town.

They were washed by the autumn tempest;
They were trod by hurrying feet;
And the maids came out with their besoms
And swept them into the street,

To be crushed and lost forever,
'Neath the wheels, in the black mire, lost, —
The summer's precious darlings,
Nourished at such a cost.

O words that have fallen from me!
O golden thoughts and true!
Must I see in the leaves a symbol
Of the fate that awaiteth you?

Again has come the spring-time,
With the crocus's golden bloom,
And the smell of the fresh-turned mould,
And the violet's perfume.

O gardener, tell the secret
Of these hues and odors sweet! —
" I have only brought to my garden
The black mire of the street. "