Classic Poem

A whispering woodland and a gray autumn sky;
The stream far below deep in slumber;
An oak that sentinels the peak, lifting high
Gnarlèd hands that play a tune
Like a softly singing rune;
Misty morning to high noon
Mounting on her wings of light o'er the Humber.

The leaves are fallen from the trees on the height
That stands almost sheer, brown and sombre;
November's frosty light
Spreads a gauzy film of white
And I almost hear the faeries
In their golden sanctuaries—
In the stillness of the autumn by the Humber.