As I stood at the door
Sheltered out of the wind,
Something flew in
Which I hardly could find.
In the dim, gloomy doorway
I searched till I found
A dry withered leaf
Lying down on the ground.
With thin, pointed claws
And a dry dusty skin,—
Sure a hall is no place
For a leaf to be in!
Oh where is your tree,
And your summer and all,
Poor dusty leaf
Whistled into a hall?