Page:Cyrano de Bergerac.djvu/291

Rh I was sure

To hear that well-known jest!

The autumn leaves!

Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair.

—See how they fall!

Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay,

With all the wayward grace of careless flight!

What, melancholy—you?

Nay, nay, Roxane!

Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will… And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette?

Listen.

Ah!