Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear,
Leaves of brown-gold
Chittering feebly in masses sere,
Crazed and slow:
And I know, what never man knew,
Those poor dead leaves
Are the souls of men the grey wind slew—
This I know.
Poeta Nascitur
Tho' all mayn't know it,
Rules only, never made a poet.
He thought to shape his writings into verse,
He pruned them down to language fixed and terse,
But finding that would give his tricks no play,
Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.
This time he dressed the naked words with care,
Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair,
And studying every law of form and rhyme,
Pieced up his metre into studious time.
But still, whatever medium he chose,
His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.
One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale
He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale—
Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky
That slipped from out the twilight whimsically.