I would be lying if I said
I wasn't lying on the ground,
gasping for every breath,
clutching at my chest,
panting for dear undeath.
I am not unscathed.
The dead leaves, the dead leaves
carouse in the wet grass.
A few drops fall on my face.
Whether by an ill fate or by grace,
we've had heavy rain again.
I remember, I remember someone,
whose heart I should have gained,
whose hand I have unwon.
The dead leaves, the dead leaves
drowse on the neat path.
I have found a hair on my sleeve,
a blond hair only one could leave,
and there I was, unquieted, drenched,
sobbing for the one lost,
holding the hair in my fist clenched,
once more wrenched and tossed.
The dead leaves, the dead leaves
rouse in a hellish din,
The dead leaves, the dead leaves
capriole, swish and spin.
I thought I could have diverted the
blow
but now my head's bent, I begin to
unknow.
I shall rest here awhile,
wait until this unshining pall
goes on to buffet another smile
with its leave-swirling squall.
The dead leaves, the dead leaves
contuse the soul, contuse the skin.
The dead leaves, the dead leaves,
those dead leaves bruise the man within.
