Lines to a Withered Leaf Seen on a Poet's Table

Poet's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll!
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul;

Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced, —
What can words discover more?

Not alone dim autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear, —
Distant music of the past
Steals upon the poet's ear.

Voices sweet of summer-hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feather'd songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.