The One Singer

Dead leaves from off the tree

Make whirlpools on the ground;

Like dogs that chase their tails,

Those leaves go round and round;

Like birds unfledged and young,

The old bare branches cry;

Branches that shake and bend

To feel the winds go by.

No other sound is heard,

Save from those boughs so bare—

Hark! who sings that one song?

’Tis Robin sings so rare.

How sweet! like those sad tunes

In homes where grief’s not known;

Or that a blind girl sings

When she is left alone.