IF there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more, If trunks of trees seem sentinels, For what their vigil no man tells. And if you clasp these guardian¹ trees Nothing there is to hurt or please； Only the dead roof of the forest drops Gently down and never stops And roofs you in and roofs you under, Mute and away from life's dim thunder； And if there come eternal spring It is but more disheartening, For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer-Autumn that is the latest comer-With the Springtime's misty² wonder And the Summer's yield of gold, Weighs you down and weighs you under To where the blackened leaves are mold. . . The lone³ gift of the forest is ever new： Eternity⁴ where dwell not you. The forest, accepting, heeds⁵ you not； Accepting all-you are forgot. If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more.

    Once the forest spoke⁶ but now is silent, Save in the skyward branches whence no sound Seems to touch ear of any man below—— Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, Yet all their roofs are built of the forest's self；

    Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living. Such lapsing⁷ of the forest then they use And turn it into countless⁸ lowly dwellings⁹； Sometimes they even cut the living down To leaven¹⁰ the dead roofs they would erect¹¹. Though some of these low roofs are lovely there Beneath the guardianship¹² of forest trees, And some yearn¹³ upward as with thought of wings, Yet the eyes of the dwellers¹⁴ therein are dark To the upper forest and they Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. They have forgotten That the greatest roof is but a banner And that it was a tree that made a Cross.