Flicker, flicker, now the leaves
Fall golden from the weeping trees,
Make golden heaps and golden mounds,
Make golden homes upon golden ground.
Then they talk with a golden rustle,
With a golden noise and a golden fustle.
Now they lie in a golden sleep,
As their golden heads do peep
Out of a heap of copper red,
Out of a golden-yellow bed;
Now tucked beneath a golden sheet,
They rustle underneath our feet.