The leaflet, greening with a vigored sap,
Ripens its being in the sun and wind;
And then, in some cool hour, it loses hold
Of all that made life dear, and lightly drifts
On breezy current to the deep of grass,
And there with autumn rain disintegrates,—
Giving its mite to richening of earth.
Is that the end? Wait yet the planets' rolling.
In Spring, the seeking roots will gather in
The tender mould our little leaf became,
And merge it into miracle of life.
Behold the resurrection of the leaf!
There is no death—mere winter of a sleep.
