Classic Poem

The brightness of the golden-rod
Which, in September's prime, did fill
The meadows when I hither trod,
Has faded from each vale and hill.
The sunset earlier paints the stock
Of yon old oak which here doth brood;
The vine is red about the rock,
Within the silent wood.

How lonely, in these sombre eves
Of autumn, seems this ancient ground;
O'er grave and tomb the withered leaves
Have fallen; gone the song-bird's sound.
Low head-stones, leaning different ways,
Bear epitaphs of long-past years;
Here rose the Mystic's hymn of praise,
And fell his pious tears.