The Kitten and Falling Leaves

That way look, my Infant, lo!What a pretty baby-show!See the Kitten on the wall,Sporting with the leaves that fall,Withered leaves--one--two--and three--5From the lofty elder-tree!Through the calm and frosty airOf this morning bright and fair,Eddying round and round they sinkSoftly, slowly: one might think,From the motions that are made,Every little leaf conveyedSylph or Faery hither tending,--To this lower world descending,Each invisible and mute,In his wavering parachute.----But the Kitten, how she starts,Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!First at one, and then its fellowJust as light and just as yellow;There are many now--now one--Now they stop and there are none:What intenseness of desireIn her upward eye of fire!With a tiger-leap half-wayNow she meets the coming prey,Lets it go as fast, and thenHas it in her power again:Now she works with three or four,Like an Indian conjurer;Quick as he in feats of art,Far beyond in joy of heart.Were her antics played in the eyeOf a thousand standers-by,Clapping hands with shout and stare,What would little Tabby careFor the plaudits of the crowd?Over happy to be proud,Over wealthy in the treasureOf her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat;Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;Here, for neither Babe nor me,Other play-mate can I see.Of the countless living things,That with stir of feet and wings(In the sun or under shade,Upon bough or grassy blade)And with busy revellings,Chirp and song, and murmurings,Made this orchard's narrow space,And this vale so blithe a place;Multitudes are swept awayNever more to breathe the day:Some are sleeping; some in bandsTravelled into distant lands;Others slunk to moor and wood,Far from human neighbourhood;And, among the Kinds that keepWith us closer fellowship,With us openly abide,All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite,Blue-cap, with his colours bright,Who was blest as bird could be,Feeding in the apple-tree;Made such wanton spoil and rout,Turning blossoms inside out;Hung--head pointing towards the ground--Fluttered, perched, into a roundBound himself, and then unbound;Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!Prettiest tumbler ever seen!Light of heart and light of limb;What is now become of Him?Lambs, that through the mountains wentFrisking, bleating merriment,When the year was in its prime,They are sobered by this time.If you look to vale or hill,If you listen, all is still,Save a little neighbouring rill,That from out the rocky groundStrikes a solitary sound.Vainly glitter hill and plain,And the air is calm in vain;Vainly Morning spreads the lureOf a sky serene and pure;Creature none can she decoyInto open sign of joy:Is it that they have a fearOf the dreary season near?Or that other pleasures beSweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwellIn the impenetrable cellOf the silent heart which NatureFurnishes to every creature;Whatsoe'er we feel and knowToo sedate for outward show,Such a light of gladness breaks,Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,--Spreads with such a living graceO'er my little Dora's face;Yes, the sight so stirs and charmsThat almost I could repineThat your transports are not mine,That I do not wholly fareEven as ye do, thoughtless pair!And I will have my careless seasonSpite of melancholy reason,Will walk through life in such a wayThat, when time brings on decay,Now and then I may possessHours of perfect gladsomeness.--Pleased by any random toy;By a kitten's busy joy,Or an infant's laughing eyeSharing in the ecstasy;I would fare like that or this,Find my wisdom in my bliss;Keep the sprightly soul awake,And have faculties to take,Even from things by sorrow wrought,Matter for a jocund thought,Spite of care, and spite of grief,To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.