Explore "Dead Leaves" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
DAWN
As though a gipsy maiden with dim look, / Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, / So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here / To read dark fortunes for us from the book / Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook / The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear / Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, / And drifting on its current calls the rook / To other lands. As one who wades, alone, / Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk / Of distant melody, and finds the tone, / In some wierd way compelling him to stalk / The paths of childhood over, -- so I moan, / And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.