WHEN THE ROUND BUDS BRIM
15
But when in bleak November
The latest web is spun,
And the gold has turned to dun,—
When winds of winter call
And the bare tree answers
As the last leaves fall
Like crumpled moths,—oh, now
How sad it is to look
Upon the leaves in the brook—
So many tattered hosts,
So many haggard ghosts,
So many broken dancers.
The latest web is spun,
And the gold has turned to dun,—
When winds of winter call
And the bare tree answers
As the last leaves fall
Like crumpled moths,—oh, now
How sad it is to look
Upon the leaves in the brook—
So many tattered hosts,
So many haggard ghosts,
So many broken dancers.
