Classic Poem

Lo, Winter comes, and all his heralds blow
Their gusty trumpets, and his tents of snow
Usurp the fields from whence sad Autumn flies, —
Autumn, that finds a southern clime or dies.
The streams are dumb with wo, — the forest grieves,
Wailing the loss of all its summer leaves:
As some fond Rachel on her childless breast.
Clasps her thin hands where once her young were prest;
Then flings her empty arms into the air,
And swells the gale with her convulsed despair!