How silently they tumble down

And come to rest upon the ground

To lay a carpet, rich and rare,

Beneath the trees without a care,

Content to sleep, their work well done,

Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly,
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air,
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below,
To wait, like children, for the snow. 
By Elsie N. Brady, Leaves