Classic Poem

Crown of the year, how bright thou shinest!
How little, in thy pride, divinest
Inevitable fall! albeit
We who stand round about foresee it.
Shine on; shine bravely. There are near
Other bright children of the year,
Almost as high, and much like thee
In features and in festive glee:
Some happy to call forth the mower,
And hear his sharpened scythe sweep o'er
Rank after rank: then others wait
Before the grange's open gate,
And watch the nodding wain, or watch
The fretted domes beneath the thatch,
Till young and old at once take wing
And promise to return in spring.
Yet I am sorry, I must own,
Crown of the year! when thou art gone.