The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
Look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.