Classic Poem

Pleasant it is, although the woods are brown,
And trees grow thin and bare, and flowers are few,
Fearless of sweeping mist or dripping dew,
To wander through lone fields away from town,
When Phaebus palely doffs his glorious crown;
And bedded is the Lark; and the Cuckoo
Is still; and nothing stirs, but shadows of dark hue;
Or the last leaves autumnal winds have strown;
Or the belated Bee, who bustles home
With his late gleanings, too much tired to sing;
Or mouse-like Bat, that flaps his sooty wing;
Or Beetle blind, who sudden breaks his hum
And heedless head 'gainst traveller or tree,
Drops in his mother dust, and there must trampled be.