My lovely dress of golden leaves 

Is tattered now, and worn,

The wind has warned – no more reprieves,

This time the leaves get shorn.

 

I hold on tight with all my might,

While gusts and gales rip past,

They tear my dress, and though I fight,

 I’m nearly bare at last.

 

I shiver and the last leaves quiver,

Hanging by a thread,

Until they loosen, blowing whither

They know not, and spread.

 

My golden dress is on the ground,

For all to trod upon,

And scuffing feet will swish it ’round,

While gusts blow ’til it’s gone.