Gather the leaves from the forest And blow them over the world,
The wind of winter follows The wind of autumn furled.
Only the beech tree cherishes A leaf or two for ruth,
Their stems too tough for the tempest, Like thoughts of love and of youth.
You may sit by the fire and ponder While darkness veils the pane,
And fear that your memories are rushing away In the wind and the rain.
But you'll find them in the quiet When the clouds race with the moon,
Making the tender silver sound Of a beech in the month of June.
For you cannot rob the memory Of the leaves it loves the best;
The wind of time may harry them, It rushes away with the rest.
