Away, away, O fallen leaf,
Plaything of the wind.
Fate will bind you in a sheath
With a million of your kind.
You will scud across the plain,
Fleck of autumn gold;
You will feel the breath of rain,
The sting of bitter cold.
Night will come and you will cry
For a verdant youth.
Ruthless time will pass you by
In a mood of truth.
(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)
No comments:
Post a Comment