I think you sent the withered leaves
That blew all day across the grass,
All day, all day they rustled by,
A tattered, flying mass. For all the world was whirling leaves
Against the lonely, wind-swept sky,
And every leaf was whispering
Your name as it flew by. Tonight the leaves lie quietly,
Sodden and still beneath the rain
That drums along the eaves and drives
Against the window pane.