Classic Poem

I

The dead leaves fall.
The air is cold and chill;
The world asleep and still.
The pine trees tall
In the dark wood
Stand brown and bare
In sunless solitude.
And everywhere
Reigns o'er the land a silence dread and drear,
O'er snow-capped barren hill and moor and mere.

II

But, far away,
Borne in a breeze's wake,
Thro' shaggy fern and brake, —
A stream's low lay
Whispers along;
And now and then
A throstle's song
Comes down the glen,
Singing the dirges of the faded light,
And heralding the star-attended night.