Classic Poem

Summer can sing;
Spring has a few songs—a very few;
Winter has some—very wild they are;
But Autumn is mother of songs.

Go listen … low and afar
They catch in the dying leaves.
The Poplar is loud and afraid,
The Pines are dreaming of days long-dead.
They catch in the leaves far off and come
Louder and nearer, sinking most rapidly,
Rising and sinking, in handfuls—gusts—
Then sweeping together in a thousand tongues
A thousand dreams. . . . Under their breath
Gasping, and crying aloud. The trees are crying …!
Do you hear the Oak? He is not like the rest!
Nor the Birch—nor the Beech—
They are all different! All strange, but the same;
All singing. . . . No, weeping—
Who says they are weeping, the trees?
But listen—go listen,
You will hear them all.
You will hear the feet of the dead going quietly,
And Hope looking for the lost path
(It is hidden under the leaves!)
The first men flying in terror.
And little people—they are all walking about together.
And you will see strange faces—sometimes your own
Very haggard. Strange things done and undone—
They will put out their hands and lay them in yours;
But you cannot hold them,
They are only song.