228 
Dead Leaves. — ‘ Sadness 
There is always something touching in a withered leaf; it tells 
of past verdure and beauty, and seems to whisper to the heart, of 
young life and bright hopes, which the frosts of sorrow have blighted 
and extinguished. 
Ye withered leaves! ye withered leaves! 
To mark your premature decay, 
With sympathy my bosom heaves, 
For like its hopes ye passed away! 
Like you they brightened in the gleam, 
Of Summer’s sweetly genial ray, 
But brilliant, transient as a dream, 
The Autumn found them in decay. 
