Whirling, swirling, swept from branches, Dry leaves flutter to the ground; Seeds, too, borne on waves of ether, Another springtime to be found. In the dawn the farmer rises, Gath'ring in the year's increase; After watching, waiting throughout summer, Nature's yield -- the crop's release. Ominous clouds hang in the offing, Waiting the tumult of winter's storm; Yet they proclaim the year is dying -- Dying -- or is it only change of form? Sad the days for him who blindly Holds the present to his breast; He can only vision ruin, In place of change that's for the best. |