Classic Poem

Her torch, once flaming, is inverted low,
And withered beauty follows in her trail;
Her voice drifts faintly from the leafless dale,
And ghastly pallor crowns that beauteous brow;
For she, who on each waiting woodland bough,
Hung gonfalons of crimson, through the vale
Goes reft of splendor, wavering and frail,
Yet queenly still, although dethroned now.

I hear her sandals brush the fallen leaves
In lonely valleys dim and far away;
Her sceptre gone, she wanders o'er the plains
Wrapped in her fluttering robes of hodden-gray;
Ghost-like she passes where the lost wind grieves, —
One with the spirit of lamenting rains.