Classic Poem

Girt round by meadows wearing shabby weeds
For clover's early death, and sentried by
The tireless locust, with his muffled click
Of secret weapon, at each footfall, stand
The woods.
September, smiling treacherous smiles,
And bearing in his hand a hollow truce
Which gentle Summer trusts, can enter free.
O fatal trust! Her sacred inner court
Of Holies, holiest, the lovely queen
Throws open to the ally of her foe.
By day, with sunny look and gracious air
He wins her heart and wears her colors. Night
Beholds him, in his white and gleaming mail,
Alert and noiseless, following the dews,
Her faithful messengers, waylaying them
With sudden cruel death, and, in their stead,
His own foul treason bearing through the realm.
Lured by his guile, the green and twining vines
Array themselves in party-colored robes
And loosely flaunt, unknowing 't is their death.
The low Bunch-Berry her nun's white lays by,
And wearing claret satin, decks her breast
With knots of scarlet beads. This sin, O sweet,
In resurrection of the coming Spring,
Shall be forgiven thee, and thou again
Shalt rise, as white as snow.
The fragrant ferns,
And clinging mosses, to whom Summer kind
Had been, more than to other lowly things,
Are true; and not till they are trampled low
By icy warriors, will they refuse
Their emerald carpet to her tread, and then,
In cold white grief, will die around her feet:
The simpering Birch, unstable in the wind,
Is first to break his faith, and cheaply bought
By gold, in brazen vanity, lifts up
His arms, and broadly waves the glittering price
Of his dishonor: Poplars next and Elms
Grow envious of the yellow show, and hold
Their hands for traitor's wages; but more scant
And dim the golden tokens gained by them;
For now disloyalty has spread, and grown
More bold of front: whole clans are cheaply won.
In hostile signal fires from hill to hill,
The Maples blaze; the tangled Sumach-trees
Of glowing spikes build crimson ladders up
The wall; ungainly Moosewood strives and creeps
And shakes his purple-spotted banner out
Defiantly; the sturdy Beeches throw
Their harvest down, and bristle in a suit
Of leathern points: all is revolt, and all
Is lost for Summer!
Vainly now she showers
By brook and pool her white and purple stars,
And lifts in all the fields her Golden-Rod;
In vain thin scarlet streamers sets along
The meadows, and to Gentian's pallid lips
Of blue calls back the chilled and torpid bee;
Sweet queen, her kingdom rocks! Her only stay
And comfort now, the loving Pines who wait
In solemn grief, unmoved and undismayed
By guile or threats, and to their farthest kin,
A haughty and untarnished race, will keep
Eternally inviolate and green
Their sworn allegiance to her and all
Her name! Encircled by their arms she dies;
And not the deadliest thrusts of wintry spears,
Nor sweeping avalanche of snow and ice,
Can daunt them from their silent watch around
Her sepulchre, nor from their faithful hold
Can wrest the babe, who, hid in sacred depths
And fed on sacred food, and nurtured till
The fated day, shall lift her infant hand,
And slaying the usurper, take the throne
Next in the royal line of summer queens.