I watch them shuttle and weave and run
Like dust before a scolding wind:
Boats on the water,
Leaves on the bank,
And men on the streets and square.
Leaves and snow and leaves again,
And men.
Boats to the sea,
Leaves to the wind,
Men to gibbet and wheel—
To thrones.
To bed,
To Père Lachaise.
Muddy tracks in the snow,
And blood on the wheel,
And rotting leaves on the tiles—
The wind and rain will sweep them away
As a soft curled plume might sweep
Flecks from a silken gown.

Shuttle and weave and run—
Boats to the sea,
Leaves to the wind
And men to Père Lachaise.