Classic Poem

Let us depart. Lone is the stubble-field,
Gone are the gleaners, for the last gold sheaves
Are gathered. Flights of red and russet leaves,
Rowan and beech, come whirling down the weald.

Let us depart. The full moon's lustrous shield
Is dulled with misty haloes; round the eaves
And in the moving boughs a low wind grieves,
Sifting the moonlight shrouded and revealed.

The west is sullen-red with smouldering fires
Of wild autumnal sunsets—smoking pyres
Of perished joys; and dews of death are rife
At eventide; their fragrance stings the heart.
The stern archangel in the book of life
Records one summer more. Let us depart.