Autumnal leaves of sycamore,
Perhaps the pinnacle of nature,
Meekly strewn in perfect disarray
To gild a world of great indifference;
Yearly trampled underfoot,
A marker of the tide.
Dim beneath the royal starlight
Strained through drifting wisps of cloud;
The rain surmounts the fallen leaves,
And solemn city streets uphold
A mirror to the heavens.
All is still, and all is silent,
Save for the interminable ebb
Of a young man growing old;
The royal starlight only serves
To light the long road home.