Classic Poem

Some autumn leaves a painter took,
And with his colors caught their hues;
So true to nature did they look,
That none to praise them could refuse.

The yellow, mingling with the red,
Shone beauteous in their bright decay;
And round a golden radiance shed,
Like that which hangs o'er parting day.

Their sister leaves that, fair as these,
This far had shared a common lot;
All soiled, and scattered by the breeze,
Are now by every one forgot.

Soon trodden under foot of men,
Their very forms will cease to be;
Nor they remembered be again,
Till Autumn decks once more the tree.

But these shall still their beauty boast,
To praise the painter's wondrous art;
When Autumn's glories all are lost,
And with the fading year depart.

And through the wintry months so pale
The Sumach's brilliant hues recall;
Where, waving over hill and vale,
They gave its splendor to our Fall.