So quietly the brown leaves fall;

More quietly your light feet fall,

As quietly behind me you do step.

You think, “He doesn’t hear,

Nor guess I am quite near.”

But yes, my dear, I do,

And wait Love’s blinds—

The closing hands of you!

And then I’ll see—my doom!

And then I’ll be—perfume!

And then your lips—will bloom

As quietly as brown leaves fall,

And quieter than your feet fell,

When you half-thought, “He cannot tell.”