Arthur Davison Ficke

FROM its thin branch high in the autumn wind

The yellow leaf now sails in upward flight;

Hovers at top-slope; then, a whirling bright

Eddy of motion, sinks. The storm behind

With gusts and veering tyrannies would uphold

Even as it downward beats this gorgeous thing

Which like an angel’s lost and shattered wing

Against the grey sky sweeps its broken gold.

Another eddy, desperate or in mirth,

Brings it to rest here on the crackled earth

Where men can see it better than on the bough.

What quite preposterous irony of wind’s-will

Touches it where it lies, golden and still,

And once more lifts it vainly heavenward now!