Classic Poem

The fire leaped up, swift, hot, and red;
Swift, hot, and red, waiting a prey;
The woman came with swift, light tread,
And silently knelt down to lay
Armfuls of leaves upon the fire,
As men lay fagots on a pyre.

Armfuls of leaves which had been bright
Like painter's tints six months before,
All faded now, a ghastly sight,
Dusty and colorless, she bore,
And knelt and piled them on the fire,
As men lay fagots on the pyre.

Watching the crackle and the blaze,
Idly I smiled and idly said:
" Good-by, dead leaves, go dead leaves' ways.
Next year there will be more as red. "
The woman turned, and from the fire
Looked up as from a funeral-pyre.

I saw my idle words had been
Far crueler than I could know,
And made an old wound bleed again.
" These are not leaves, " she whispered low,
" That I am burning in the fire,
But days, — it is a funeral-pyre. "