The night is chill, the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bbleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek —
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

– S.T. Coleridge “Christabel”