Last June—how slight a thing to tell!—
One straggling leaf beneath the limes
Against the sunset rose and fell,
Making a rhythm with coloured rhymes.
No other leaf in all the air
Seemed waking; and my little maid
Watched with me, from the garden-chair,
Its rhythmic play of light and shade.
Now glassy gold, now greenish grey,
It dropped, it lifted. That was all.
Strange I should still feel glad to-day
To have seen that one leaf lift and fall.