How the leaves came down

How the Leaves Came Down by Susan Coolidge

 "I'll tell you how the leaves came down," The great tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red.

It is quite time to go to bed." "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief; Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away."

 So, for just one more merry day To the great tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced, and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,-- "Perhaps the great tree will forget, And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg, and coax, and fret." But the great tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering. "Come, children, all to bed," he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare tree looked down and smiled, "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said. And from below each sleepy child Replied, "Good-night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed!

A Walt Whitman poem...

A Child Said, What Is The Grass?

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Deal of the day!