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!”

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