From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, November 17, 1914. By Vina Sheard.
Summer is past for the little leaves,
So the wind by night and day
Gathers them close, while he sighs and grieves,
And carries them all away.
Leaves that are yellow and beaten gold,
Leaves of a passionate red,
Leaves that are broken and brown and old,
Leaves that are withered and dead.
Some he will blow to the mad sea waves,
And in the ebb and flow,
They will reach the green forgotten graves
Of the drowned that lie below.
Some he will drift to the place of sleep,
The great brown Mother of rest,
And to Slumber, dreamless, sweet and deep,
She will hush them on her breast.
For the fleeting days of blue and gold
They will fret no more or sigh—
They will not know it grows dark and cold,
Or stir when the rain sweeps by.
And none shall unfold the mystery
Of the things that come and go,
Save only He who holdeth the sea,
And maketh the winds to blow.