IN THE WOODS

By John Drinkwater

I was in the woods to-day,

And the leaves were spinning there,

Rich apparelled in decay,—

In decay more wholly fair

Than in life they ever were.

Gold and rich barbaric red

Freakt with pale and sapless vein,

Spinning, spinning, spun and sped

With a little sob of pain

Back to harbouring earth again.

Long in homely green they shone

Through the summer rains and sun,

Now their humbleness is gone,

Now their little season run,

Pomp and pageantry begun.

Sweet was life, and buoyant breath,

Lovely too; but for a day

Issues from the house of death

Yet more beautiful array:

Hark, a whisper —“Come away.”

One by one they spin and fall,

But they fall in regal pride:

Dying, do they hear a call

Rising from an ebbless tide,

And, hearing, are beatified?