Golden yellow leaves fell crisp
And lay upon the richer brown of hills,
And still I thought of words that you had spoken
Springs ago...in days of daffodils...
When love and birdsong floated on the air,
When hands were soft and tender
And warm winds tossed about our hair.
But now all that were leaves are cinder,
The evening air grows damp and chill...
The birdsong become the cawing of a crow.
But my old heart remembers still
Your springtime words of, oh, so long ago;
For dead leaves mean not that love is dead
That lived through long and lovely years;
And, though crisp and broken, all green sped,
There is no room or need this fall for tears.
August 16, 1966
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