The Red Leaf

Red, my leaf is,
swept in its sense,
with every breeze, away,
red, like a rose for a prince.

Gentle, rests in sway,
roams in display,
but even though green it was,
red now, like a rose of May.

Rest upon the grass,
O heart of glass,
gentle as is,
red so in tears a mass.

Red, my dear is,
just like a rose, of a prince.