Classic Poem

THERE have been mighty winds on high,
The hail-clouds fell and keen
Have marred the mild autumnal sky,
Just gaily aping Spring's soft eye,
And rent earth's robe of all but vernal green.

But now again the West will breathe,
The storms afar will fleet,
And clouds above, and woods beneath,
Weave, ere they fade, one joyous wreath,
For a kind soothing autumn-farewell meet.