Classic Poem

My harvest has passed the reaping,
The summer draws on to its rest:
'T is growing as hushed around me,
As hushed as if echo were sleeping,
Or slain in the mountains' breast.

My pinions of song are weary,
And I too am still at last.
'T is growing as hushed around me,
As hushed in my room, and eerie,
As if an angel had passed.

All laughter has fled in fear now,
And gone is each kindly guest.
'T is growing so hushed around me,
So hushed I can plainly hear now
My breathing short and repressed.

Then come the thoughts that have waited
Till I must hark in the gloom.
'T is growing as hushed around me,
As hushed as the moment fated
For Death to open my tomb.

They come now, one with another,
From days of my youth long sped.
'T is growing so hushed around me,
So hushed that I call my mother
And father to me in dread.

But they, both dead, cannot shield me;
The thoughts come up in a crowd.
'T is growing so hushed around me,
So hushed that at length I yield me
To them, with my forehead bowed.

They soon are my dearest treasure,
The thoughts that once could affright.
For all is so hushed around me,
So hushed that they at their pleasure
Commune with me through the night.

I live with them unrebelling,
I grieve with them and am gay.
For all is as hushed around me,
As hushed as if I were dwelling
Where life had withered away.