A hand could feel the winds of change
In all the fluttering, wispy crack
And creak of tree-limbs, on the range
Of orchard yard, and grassy lawn
Long since yellowed by the frost
Now that the last of them have gone
Whose wing and claw would lift up
Those ancient, rain-streaked bows
And turn the leaves before the dawn
No children play, under that tree
Or old men by the railing stoop
Remain to clutch at branches, lost
Or a feather from the breeze
And any with a look would ascertain
The fate of home in branches made
To fall from nook, or hidden place..
But for a ghostly finger in the cold