From The Topeka State Journal, October 29, 1912. By Georgia Wood Pangborn. All the cheerful little leaves Were lying mute and slain, Their tender summer faces Marred with age and pain. Through the threadbare forest Strode the wind and rain. I wept because the sky was gray, Because the leaves were dead, Because the winter came so fast, And summer’s sweet was sped; And because I, too, was mortal— “All flesh is grass,” I said. But while I was lamenting The woods began to sing. The voice of all dead leaves came up As when they sang in Spring: “Praise God,” they sang, “for Winter And stormy harvesting: “Praise God, who uses old things To serve the new things’ need And turns us into earth again That next year’s roots may feed; Roots but for us and our decay Would shrivel in the seed. “To the thousand summers Our summer has been thrust, But the snow is very gentle Above its rags and rust. Lie down, lie down, oh, brothers, With the thousand summers’ dust.”