Explore "Sweet Hours" by Carmen Sylva on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.
The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time, / And lie a golden heap or fly away, / As if the butterflies had left their wings / Behind, when love's short summertime had gone, / And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower / Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves / Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless, / That you can hardly tell what formed that mould, / That never-ending burial-place of leaves.