Classic Poem

Fall! fall! poor leaf, that on the naked bough,
Sole lingering spectacle of sad decay,
Sits shivering at the blasts of dark November:
Thy fellows strew the ground, not one is left
To grace thy naked side; late who could count
Their number multitudinous and thick
Veiling the noon-day blaze; behind their shade
The birds half-hid disported, clustring fruit
Behind their ample shade lay glowing ripe:
No bird salutes thee now; nor the green sap
Mounts in thy veins; thy spring is gone, thy summer,
Even the crimson tints
Thy grave but rich autumnal livery,
That pleased the eye of contemplation —
Some filament perhaps, some tendril stronger
Than all the rest resists the whistling blast
Fall fall poor leaf —
Thy solitary single self shews more
The nakedness of winter
Why wait to fall and strew the ground like them