New Year: September on Campus

Still—even poplar, even aspen—leaves,

yet green, still poised each in its place;

and yet clear, still unclouded grass.

Except in sunflower time the sunflower face

following the hours round as they pass

through the warm sunlight, nothing moves.

No sound; not even—yet—the drop of a leaf

(that distant tap at funeral pace

of winter’s drum) on hardened grass.

Each linden or willow rapt in singular grace

at the fall’s point can still outclass

its type, acknowledging no grief.

Trees yearly outlive themselves: autumn bereaves;

yet even winter can better grace,

oak, ash, or maple still surpass

their past to show next year another face.

Thus trees; but man’s each moment has

its fall, his every instant springs fresh leaves.