Here there is hardly A wind at all, Yet the leaves go whirling As they fall. And as the bough quivers The brown leaves start, And the hands of beauty Tug at my heart. The solemn ant, Like the hardy weed, Brings golden gifts To my aching need. While autumn burns To its splendid close I steel my heart For the winter's woes. No sound but a sigh The whole wood through; And I hear such songs As I never knew. |