On the dry brown bough
The withered leaves still cling
In their last desperate hold
And ceaseless murmuring.
They push the swinging branch
To beat upon the pane;
'Save us,' they whispering cry—
'We shall not live again!'
She laughs in pretty play,
The child beside my chair,
'Look at the linden tree!
The leaves are dancing there.
'Are swaying on the branch,
Are singing in their glee;
The little song I hear
Is, ‘I am glad to be.’'

At night when she doth rest
From all her laughing hours,
And plays in dreamy vales
With everlasting flowers.
I hear the withered leaves
Beat loud upon the pane,
'Save us,' they screaming cry—
'We shall not live again!'
What grief within my breast
Beats to the tapping call?
Deep in my heart I hear
The rustling of their fall.