Classic Poem

Frost, the destroyer, has begun his work
Upon the foliage; leaves, that were as bright
With the young dew upon them as the light
Of new-found emeralds, show that in them lurk
Decay and death—for the rich, hectic glow
Is burning in their cheeks, and they will fall
Before, with tender ministry, the snow
Shall hide them under an unspotted pall.
Soon will the voice of all the streams be still,
And still the choir that in the woodlands made
Harmony with the rejoicing thoughts that fill
The Universe about us! Grove and glade
Will doff their singing robes and garlands fair,
And the white shroud of icy Winter wear.