Page:Dora Sigerson Shorter - New Poems.djvu/38



the dry brown bough The withered leaves still cling In their last desperate hold And ceaseless murmuring.

They push the swinging branch To beat upon the pane; "Save us," they whispering cry— “We shall not live again!"

She laughs in pretty play, The child beside my chair, “Look at the linden tree! The leaves are dancing there.

"Are swaying on the branch, Are singing in their glee; The little song I hear Is, 'I am glad to be.'"