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.