By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very
THE leaves, though thick, are falling: one by one
Decayed they drop from off their parent tree;
Their work with Autumn’s latest day is done,—
Thou see’st them borne upon the breezes free.
They lie strewn here and there, their many dyes
That yesterday so caught thy passing eye;
Soiled by the rain each leaf neglected lies,
Upon the path where now thou hurriest by.
Yet think thee not their beauteous tints less fair
Than when they hung so gayly o’er thy head;
But rather find thee eyes, and look thee there
Where now thy feet so heedless o’er them tread,
And thou shalt see, where wasting now they lie,
The unseen hues of immortality.