Classic Poem

By the waterfall, and the lone road side
Flowers of an hundred hues have died;
For the lonely gale is sighing deep,
Over the valley and over the steep,
And the soul of Autumn is haunting the day,
And nothing but sorrow, for nothing is gay.

The leaves of the forest are changing their hue,
They are yellow and red like a carpeted pew,
They moan in the wind like an orphan child
Whose mother lies dead on the moorland wild.
Not so in the Spring
When the green leaves cling
To the truthful trees, like a lover's heart
To her whom he loves, and who cannot part.

Then sang the Spring like a hymn of joy,
In the sunny sheen of the glossy bough,
Whilst her breath with the wavy grass did toy, —
The grass which is withered so yellow now, —
Notes of the breeze, of the sweet breeze warm,
A thousand leagues off from a thought of storm.

Then, on the banks of the rushing stream,
The tall polished stalks of the flowers rose up,
Then must one lie and sweetly dream,
While happiness glowed in his full life's cup, —
It is over now.

Chill and cold comes the autumn wind,
Snow and ice it is hiding behind,
And its hands are full of unnumbered blights,
To stand in the room of the sunny lights,
Which wove the gold fruits on the orchard's breast,
And lined the soft wall of the wood-bird's nest.

The song of the Summer has faded away,
Her life she gave up in the last warm day.
No more are her steps on the flowery hills,
No more the soul of the wood she fills
With those snatches of joy, and that rustling light
That sparkled like gems in the sun so bright.