THE UPPER BIRCH-LEAVES

Warm yellowy-green

In the blue serene,

How they skip and sway

On this autumn day!

They cannot know

What has happened below, -

That their boughs down there

Are already quite bare,

That their own will be

When a week has passed, -

For they jig as in glee

To this very last.

But no; there lies

At times in their tune

A note that cries

What at first I fear

I did not hear:

“O we remember

At each wind's hollo -

Though life holds yet -

We go hence soon,

For‘ tis November;

- But that you follow

You may forget!”