To The Fallen Soldier

You, leaf, lying wilted and wasted,
You, blissful child, too soon taken
From a life you hardly tasted.

What ignoble fate of essence
Unrequested and sorely rewarded,
Clothing your host in springtime's attire,
Humming in concert to laud the caress
Of summer's light breath, balmy and warm,
Howling to protest the blustery storm.

But was your voice heard?

Would the same melodious song
Sound just as sweet with one less soul
In a chorus one hundred strong?

Resplendent in your autumn finery,
So ruefully shed. Another will come
In your stead. And to what end?
May Heaven hold a place for you,
My friend.