We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The withered leaves of Autumn, in golden whirlpools light,
Were dancing in the sunshine of Summer’s dying day,
And yet their dancing seemed to me their agonizing flight
From darkness and oblivion, and mouldering decay.
The hag that sweeps the pavement, with ruthless broom unkind,
Swept up the joyful dancers, and, muttering at their play,
She caught the helpless beings, as many as she could find,
And, mingled with the dust and filth, she swept them all away.