Yonder old woman With the hooded head Cannot find her way To the house of the dead. Gnarled is her body As a wild apple-tree, And her thoughts are leaves. Hanging ruefully. Winter-bitten grey Is their color now, And they point stiffly down From the withered bough. Though spring makes a stirring In the roots below, It cannot crawl To where buds should grow. The stiff leaves talk; They implore the sky: “Oh, cast us away To the dark!” they cry.
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