Classic Poem

The corn is down,
The stooks are gone,
The fields are brown,
And the early dawn
Grows slowly behind
Where the mountains frown,
And a thin white sun
Is shivering down.

There is not a leaf,
Nor anything green,
To aid belief
That summer has been;
And the puffed-up red-breast
(Ball o' Grief)
Comes to the window
For relief.

The cows are in byre,
The sheep in fold,
The mare and the sire
Are safe from cold,
The hens are sheltered,
In wood and wire,
And the sheep-dog snoozes
Before the fire.

The farmer can grin,
As he rubs his hands,
For the crops are in
From the resting lands;
And the wheat is stored
In the oaken bin,
And the farmer's wife
Makes merry within.