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 thought
That speaks to me from dying leaves,
Of life at best but naught?
In thought I tread the shadowy Past,
Hear the retreating tread
Die 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!
Hear the retreating tread
Die 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!
