Leaves, leaves, leaves--
Of pale tints and brilliant hues,--
True richness in the poverty of the sunshine's somber light.
The cold, ebony night, silver drenched with moonlight
From a golden harvest moon,--
Haystacks silhouettes, the tall corn shucks,
And the autumn lovers' Indian summer swoons.

Autumn's exquisite beauty?
Ah, yes!,--
The rise of beauty to climax, beauty in its prime perfection
But perfection ordained to fade away.
The leaves are robbed of their colors.
The trees shiver in the cold winds.
There is meaningless disorder.
The leaves rustle and seem to speak
But their voices are expressionless and vain.
The land's waning beauty is profound,--
But the memories of the mind are paradise.