Classic Poem

When Autumn leaves strew hill, and dale, and brook,
And yet the trees are clad, 'tis sweet to lie
In sun or shade, where winds run fluttering by,
Shutting the light leaves of unclasped book,
(That flaps like startled bird,) ere you can look
Through its well-wedded lines, weaning your eye
From studious stare to pore upon the sky
Dappled with fleecy clouds, (as if the crook
Of Dian's shepherd had been gathering
His golden lambs from Phœbus' chariot-way),
Letting wild fancy have her airy wing;
And thus in serious musing wear the day,
As still sleep motionless where all is motion,
And woods with winds are tossed like green waves of the ocean.