There is in sadness a sense of Fall, of spacious leprosy where crippled thought like the outmoded nymph dies behind each tree, and childlike peeks out to let at least childhood disbelieve in its unhappy end.
     There is in sadness, a branch that holds the once-upons, the happily-evers, and the destined-to-bes, a sweet find for all in grief.  Each stem lends momentum to their pluckings.
          There is in sadness, a young man who cherishes dead leaves.  He lately held waxen happiness and knew this as his permanence.