The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.
As fall the light autumnal leaves, one still the other following, till the bough strews all its honors on the earth below.
The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.
The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.
The rinsed foam swirled into one drain that always clogged come October when the maples dropped Canadian propaganda over everything.
The leaves fall patiently Nothing remembers or grieves The river takes to the sea The yellow drift of leaves.
