Lost Lamé

The rustle of the autumn’s golden page
(As if by thumb were leafed the gilded leaves)
Shall whisper inspiration to the trees
To pen their paper’s face with adages.
A story thus is wrought with foliage,
So leaving latticed staffs in symphonies
With brazen emptiness, a vacant stage.
But once a page upon the street is dropt,
The ink is blurred by sodden breccia;
And so, the gilded page, the heart’s lamé,
Discarded, since the author thought it notched,
This masterpiece of marginalia
Is lost among the world’s wet alleyway.