Is it the whisper of the rain or falling leaves?!— Yet ornaments come tumbling from the boughs, And soon will be revealed before our eyes Both essence and the truth of all that is.
What talent must one have and hold To keep, with all restraint intact, The final leaf and diamond drops— The footprints rain leaves on the lace of branches.
And this is eloquent and weighty, And long your gaze will linger there, On poplars raising their arm-like branches, In black and white photographs in rows.
Against the sky—an outline sharp and clear, It may compare in memory, perhaps, With cast-iron patterns of the gates In that dear city never to forget.
Verses and life and flocks of crying birds— How many undeserved gifts are given, So freely, for naught, by mercy great, The Creator of souls, nature, and all worlds.
