Classic Poem

The dawn, first gleaming ashy gold,
Has flamed into a sullen red,
And the east wind blows thin and cold.
The sun, with ragged, misty beams
Peers from the cloud-capped mountain head
Through the loud calling of the streams.
Then the gray mist shuts down again,
Wrapping the long hills, fold on fold,
While through the woods, with whispering tread,
Steal the first footsteps of the rain.