Classic Poem

Golden and red,—golden and red,—
Beautiful dying,—beautiful dead,—
Autumn leaves.

In the winds of winter, bitter,
Sparkling with the snowflakes' glitter,
Sway the buds
In the spring awake from slumber,
Tiny leaves, in countless number—
Myriads.

Through the summer, hot and dreary,
Hang they, parched with waiting, weary
For the Fall.
'Twould be scarce worth while their growing,
'Mid the breezes, idly blowing,
Were this all.

This is but the preparation
For the glorious consummation
Of their day;
'Tis when they at last are dying,
And when some in death are lying,
That we say:

Golden and red,—golden and red,—
Beautiful dying,—beautiful dead,—
Autumn leaves.