Classic Poem

Oh, purple hang the pods
On the green locust-tree,
And yellow turn the sods
On a grave that's dear to me!

And blue, softly blue,
The hollow autumn sky,
With its birds flying through
To where the sun-lands lie!

In the sun-lands they'll bide
While winter's on the tree;—
And oh, that I might hide
The grave that's dear to me!