Classic Poem

Dead leaves from off the tree
Make whirlpools on the ground;
Like dogs that chase their tails,
Those leaves go round and round;
Like birds unfledged and young,
The old bare branches cry;
Branches that shake and bend
To feel the winds go by.

No other sound is heard,
Save from those boughs so bare —
Hark! who sings that one song?
'Tis Robin sings so rare.
How sweet! like those sad tunes
In homes where grief's not known;
Or that a blind girl sings
When she is left alone.