A WALK IN THE CASCINE.
(FLORENCE.)To H. B. S.
WALK on dead and withered leaves— On dead leaves brown and sere,The worn and tattered garments of Another dying year.And as I tread their brittle forms, Can I profane the thoughtThat speaks to me from dying leaves, Of life at best but naught?In thought I tread the shadowy Past, Hear the retreating treadDie away in the distance far, Another year that's fled.Too late to catch at her garments, Stirring the wintry air,Wafting pale retrospection of Another vanished year!
