Classic Poem

Yes, lonely tree, th' autumnal gust assails
Thy naked limbs, that tremble as it blows;
Ah! soon, full soon, expos'd to colder gales,
Those limbs may bend beneath December snows.

Oft have I sat in thy expansive head,
A fancied monarch of the space below;
Oft on thy trunk my youthful cheek I've laid,
Wet with the tears I shed for fancied woe.

Subdued by time, full many a branch decays,
That green and flourishing thou borest then;
Subdued by time the passions of those days
Will never bloom within my breast again.

No more, persisting through the tangled briar,
To pluck the primrose from yon bank I try;
No more I feel the puerile desire
To seize each bird that whistling flutters by.

The objects that in infancy we crave,
Cease to delight us as we grow in years;
Th' expanding mind, as we approach the grave,
To trivial youthful joys no more adheres.

Till ling'ring joyless, impotent, and old,
The man around him casts his torpid eyes;
And cold to life, to all its pleasures cold,
Just heaves his aged breast, and calmly dies.