Said the folded Leaves upon the Heath
           To the opening Leaves upon the Tree:
‘Soon will the Warders of the Storm
           Bring us to our Mother-Sea,
Even as they opened yesternight
           Our prison doors of Destiny:
We envy not the Birds now nor the Dew,
To them we leave the Forest and to you.’

The infant Leaves thus made reply:
           ‘But we rejoice that we are here;
We stand in the cerulean Gate
           Of Life to crown the dying Year.
Him who emancipates we love,
           He who enchains is also dear:
You are the Flowers of the Storm, and we,
We are the Fruits of Death upon Life’s tree.’

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.