Classic Poem

As yearns a mother o'er her little one,
Whose baby cheek grows paler ev'ry sun,
And baby eyes grow mystical near Death;
And though she fears each sobbing breath
Will be the last; and though her eyes are dim,
She dresses it (to please some passing whim)
In costly garments beautiful and bright.
But while so gayly drest an angel white
Outstretched her arms to take her little child,
And leaves her, hopeless, desolate, and wild.

—

Just so the trees, when Fall with chilly breath
Steals o'er the country in the form of Death,
Bedeck in wondrous dress their baby leaves;
And though their hearts are wrung, and though it grieves
Them sore yet do they bravely laugh and smile
So that no presage mar their little while:
But as they laugh they see Death's form advance
Unsheathing without sound his cruel lance,
And ev'ry leaf pierced through mid swift surprise
With deep'ning horror growing in their eyes,
And baby laughter dying on their lips
Forgets to cling and sadly downward slips

-

Then all the trees o'erwrought with grief and woe
Join their wild wails with all the winds that blow
And writhing, lift their hungry arms on high
Disconsolate, beneath a sullen sky