THE COLLEGE OF SURGEONS

By James Stephens

As I stood at the door

Sheltered out of the wind,

Something flew in

Which I hardly could find.

In the dim, gloomy doorway

I searched till I found

A dry withered leaf

Lying down on the ground.

With thin, pointed claws

And a dry dusty skin,—

Sure a hall is no place

For a leaf to be in!

Oh where is your tree,

And your summer and all,

Poor dusty leaf

Whistled into a hall?