The Falling Leaves-G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall,
     The perishing kindreds of the leaves; they drift,
Spent flames of scarlet, gold aerial,
     Across the hollow yeara, noiseless and swift.
Lightly He blows, and countless as the falling
     Of snow by night upon the solemn sea,
The ages circle down beyond recalling
     To strew the hollows of Eternity.
He sees them drifting through the spaces dim.
 And leaves and ages are as one to Him.