Classic Poem

The grass is frozen in the fields,
The forest-trees are bare,
And restless clouds, like driven ships,
Are scudding through the air.
But yesterday the sun was bright,
And all the world was fair;
The insects chirped, and birds of song
Were singing everywhere.

From the lone window, where I watch
The village drenched in rain,
I see the smoke from chimney-tops
Try to ascend in vain;
Then suddenly it flits away,
In form of a broken chain;
And winds are groaning in the sky,
Like human souls in pain.

The dark-winged storm-clouds smite the earth
With sudden gusts and drear;
Before them fly the scattered leaves,
Like flocks of frightened deer:
There seems no place of rest for these
Dead, withered leaves and sere,
But doomed, like ghosts that cannot rest,
They wander all the year.

Between the hills and swaying trees
I see the graveyard lie;
And near it the old Church's spire
Points upward to the sky.
And now and then I hear the bell
Tolling a funeral by,
And telling, with an iron tongue,
That we are sure to die.

The village of the silent dead,
And this of living men,
Are near together as the hills
That border on the glen;
And many move from this to that,
But come not back again:
And all must take that dreaded path,
Only we know not when.