The Jester

A Jester, a winner of empty laughter,
Grew sick of life, and the life hereafter, 
Of sea, and sky, and the seasons four. 
"I will die," he said, "as my mirth is dying, 
Lie down as the fallen tree is lying 
On Earth's brown bosom, and hear no more 
The madman's laughter, the sage's sighing." 

The Jester went when his mood was sorest 
Into the heart of the autumn forest; 
Round him and past him in nerveless haste 
The dead leaves whirled in a helpless eddy. 
"Here," said the Jester, "the year makes ready 
To die as gladly as I, to waste 
Like wine that's spilled from a cup unsteady." 

He lay in the leaves, and a sound of laughter 
Rang through the forest: before him, after, 
Around, above him the laughter swept. 
A girl came berrying down the hedges — 
The wind dropped dead at the forest edges 
As a bird from the stone that a slinger fledges. 
The woman came, and the man that slept 
In the Jester out of the dead leaves leapt; 
He caught her hands, and her heart he kept.