He wore a cryptic sadness for the year,
For he had seen two leaves break on the stem
And he had seen the wind take after them
As if it could not get enough of leaves.
And I who watched, was it through tear and tear
I saw him roughly button up his coat
To keep the wind from coming near his throat,
Or was it with that scrutiny that believes
In hiding in the blankness of an eye
What glitter lies beyond?
And he passed on,
And after him more leaves, crooked and wan,
Curved in more breaking patterns.
Did I weep,
Or did I keep my eyeballs hard and dry
Like pebbles?
Other winds moved up and down,
Cleaning the gutters that keep clean a town,
And other leaves came crookedly to sweep
The full light out and bring the half light in.

Twilight became a thing of broken leaves,
And every sound was like a bell that grieves
Over a stillness; life was little more
Than a distorted passion that had been.
Only remained the ways of leaves: the giving
To brittleness that which was soft and living,
Only the going on of him who wore
His collar up because he walked on leaves.
And covered with the gloom did I permit
My lowered lash to fringe with small beads lit
With evidence more visibly delicate
Than all the essence of the mind achieves?
Or did I round the pupil with a stare,
Keeping the lash as stiff as bracken where
The frost lies on it and the hour is late?