Les Mouches Fantastiques (amateur journal)/April 1918/Autumn

Little long face, still and white,
Lying in the autumn light.
Yellow autumn sunshine bright,
Still, how still!
Red leaves on her red lips there,
Gold leaves on her golden hair,
Curled brown leaves all over her,
Over, over her,
Hiding, hiding her.....

Surely she is dead;
Else she would not lie so still
While the dead leaves fall at will
Over her.
Surely she isdead;
Else her little straightened feet
Would not be so coldly sweet,
Coldly sweet.

One passed by and said she slept.

Surely if it were not death,
But only sleep, her silver breath
Would stir that little ruddy leaf
That sighs upon her lips for grief.

One passed by and said she slept.

Surely one who but passed by
Would not know so well as I,
(I who was her lover
'Til the leaves fell over)
Whether she is dead or sleeping.
I who know am weeping ..... weeping......