. . . Seeing the Changing Leaf

Not ecstasy, not agony, not grief,

Nor joy, nor the long sorrow of our kind-

Nothing of these is native to the leaf:

The unsentient leaf being deaf and dumb and blind...

But always, still, the heart within the breast,

Lonely and lost, with more than it can bear,

Looks here and there, dismayed, turns east and west,

And seeing the changing leaf upon the air,

Thinks how herself is brothered by the leaf,

Thinking the green is joy, the sere is grief.