“THE LAST LEAF”
by Harry Behn
A few leaves stay for a while on the trees..
After their color begins to turn..
And no other leaves seem as gold as these..
Not even the ones our bonfires burn..
With golden flames in piles on the ground.
A few leaves stay so long that I found..
The one last leaf on a tree in the snow..
And when a galloping wind came round..
The edge of our house and started to blow..
Snow dust to sparkles floating free..
When the wind ran away, almost with me..
And sunshine settled quiet and cold..
There, like a bird, still on the tree..
Was that lonesome leaf, no longer gold..
But curly and brown and dry and old..