The Pity of the Leaves by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Vengeful across the cold November moors,
Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak
Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek,
Reverberant through lonely corridors.
The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce,
Words out of lips that were no more to speakâ€”
Words of the past that shook the old manâ€™s cheek
Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors.
And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!
The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside
Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then
They stopped, and stayed thereâ€”just to let him know
How dead they were; but if the old man cried,
They fluttered off like withered souls of men.