A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches; <br />Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough; <br />Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars; <br />Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys, <br />Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep. <br /> <br />But afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light, <br />The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict <br />Like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly; <br />Then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies <br />Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound, <br />Loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately, <br />Hounding through air athirst for blood. <br /> <br />And the little gilt leaves <br />Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.<br /><br />Frederic Manning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/leaves-33/
