Yet wait awhile, and on the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath the parent shade.
How like decaying life they seem to glide!
And yet no second spring have they in store;
But where they fall forgotten, to abide
Is all their portion, and they ask no more.
Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing;
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold;
The green buds glisten in the dews of spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old.