BROWN leaves forget the green of May, br The earth forgets the kiss of Spring; br And down our happy woodland way br Gray mists go wandering. br br br You have forgotten too, they say; br Yet, does no stealthy memory creep br Among the mist wreaths, ghostly gray, br Where spell-bound violets sleep? br br br Ah, send your thought sometimes to stray br By paths that knew our lingering feet. br My thought walks there this many a day, br And they, at least, may meet.