Dead leaves from off the tree Make whirlpools on the ground; Like dogs that chase their tails, Those leaves go round and round; Like birds unfledged and young, The old bare branches cry; Branches that shake and bend To feel the winds go by. No other sound is heard, Save from those boughs so bare -- Hark! who sings that one song? 'Tis Robin sings so rare. How sweet! like those sad tunes In homes where grief's not known; Or that a blind girl sings When she is left alone. |