Classic Poem

The crimson and the russet and the gold,
The palest green that gives a hint of spring,
And nameless colors that swift breezes fling
From waving trees: tall dahlias crisped by cold
Vie with the sunrise, as some men when old
Are brightest, or as swans, when dying, sing,
Or a sweet strain the fickle zephyrs bring
Stopped short before its burden is all told.
O fair November, lesson us, we pray;
O sweet, sad season, teach us ere you go;
O teach us, ere your mellow lights have passed,
The secret in the fading of your day;
That when life's end approaches, we may know
The way to make our fairest, brightest, LAST !