Classic Poem

Bearing the shining sickle in his hand,
And crowned with chaplets of the nodding wheat,
Autumn, the Reaper, stalks along the land,
With drifts of dead leaves blown about his feet.

The scarlet glories that enrobe the woods,
Witch-voices haunting groves of ash and elm,
Inverted skies that float in glassy floods,
Make the wide landscape an enchanted realm!

No more is heard the reaper's ringing blade,
No more the blackbird whistles in the sedge,
No more the crimson-fingered village maid,
Seeks the wild fruitage of the berry hedge;

But from the hills the smiles of Summer die,
And trailing vapors hang in dismal shrouds,
And slowly through the blue fields of the sky
The winds, like shepherds, drive the fleecy clouds.

Now comes the mellow Indian Summer time,
When wold and woodland, stretching far and fair,
In panoramic splendor lie sublime,
And waver in the illuminated air!

November seems with golden June to join,
And from the morning windows, ice-embossed,
The fairies of the warm west wind purloin
The silver pictures of the artist, Frost!

As some sad lover, touched with soft regret,
Pauses, remembering all his lady's charms,
Then chides the weakness that cannot forget.
And turns again to seek her happy arms;

So the weak Year, too foolish and too fond,
Reverses his slow steps and backward goes,
Irresolute to break so sweet a bond,
And leave unkist the summer's latest rose!

Caught by unequal gusts, the vane on high
From point to point perpetually swings;
And like some giant fowl that strives to fly,
The windmill flutters its enormous wings!

In orchards heaped with fruit the ragged trees
Sigh hoarsely each to each with windy words,
And toss their bare arms to the fitful breeze,
Like frantic misers loath to lose their hoards.

The russet fields, resigning to the flail
Their golden sheaves are yet not all bereft;
For here and there, drab-drest, the quaker-quail,
Like gleaning Ruth, secures what man has left.

But more suspicious, the marauding crow,
Still eyes the sentry effigy askance,
That guards its post through all the storms that blow,
And swings and spins as in an elfin dance!

By lonely lakes and marshy-bottomed vales
The waterfowl assemble night by night,
Till all the covey, warned by colder gales,
Trails to the south its long loquacious flight

In countless tribes that blur the harvest moon,
And make the heavens clamorous as they go,
Haply, if ere they reach some far lagoon,
No sportsman's tube shall lay their leader low!

For now the Pilgrim festival is near,
When all the various crop is safely stored —
Honored Thanksgiving, to New England dear,
When fowl, or wild or tame, controls the board!

Once more around the old familiar hearth
The household draws, and tuneful voices ring,
And annual games well worn and rustic mirth
Swell high the honors of the Harvest King!

Yet even while we pledge his jovial reign,
Our gayest songs are saddened in their tone;
And a new ruler, with his boisterous train,
Usurps the realm and climbs into the throne;

And all too soon the bounty-dropping star
Dips toward the darkened verge and sinks below,
And o'er the waste white Winter's clattering car
Approaches swift, whirled in a cloud of snow!