Classic Poem

When the farmer, from his fields,
Home has borne the ripened grain;
Where his hands no more can reap,
Harvests yet for me remain.

Autumn flowers, of every hue,
Brightly bloom along my way;
Golden rods and asters fair
Make the fields and pastures gay.

Then the bitter-sweet I seek,
Draping rock and leafy tree;
And its berries homeward bear,
Ripened harvest left for me.

Then the gentian, trustful flower!
In the meadow low I find;
Last of Autumn's brilliant train,
Fearless of the chilling wind!

Scattered o'er his stubble ground,
Each some lesson can impart;
Wisdom for the thoughtful mind,
Pleasure for the feeling heart.

Oft your lessons, on my walks,
Autumn flowers! I ponder o'er;
But how little have I learned
Of your sweet and sacred lore!