Classic Poem

The summer's wreath is withered in the plain,
And Autumn's graver garb of dusky gold
Lies strewn in sombre glen and silent lane,
And winter, like a palmer sable-stoled,
Watches with cold unsympathetic eyes
The dying year's faint, final agonies.

Ay, summer is no more; afar I hear
A heavy sigh and sound among the leaves,
As of the feet of those who bear a bier
With wailing voices; 'tis the wind that grieves,
Seeking through lone, dim vales and woodlands dun
The bright departed children of the sun.

And I, too, seek in places well-remembered,
Some lingering token of the vanished hours,
But round me lie all desolate and dismembered,
The green mid-forest glades and vine-roofed bowers
Where peace like a sweet presence held her sway;
Nothing remains but ruin and decay.

I loiter by the ivy-mantled wall
Where cling the shattered nests upon the bough,
To hear one faint and farewell echo fall
Of all the music that is silent now
In vain; the sere grass shivers on the hill,
The rushes moan beside the frozen rill.

I feel like one in lonely age returning
To seek repose in haunts of happier years,
Who stands and gazes round him, vainly yearning
For one dear landmark that his memory bears;
Till from his revery by some rude hand shaken,
He starts and wakes and finds himself forsaken.