Classic Poem

As late I stood a sluggish brook beside,
Wherein from rustling alders dropping fast,
Floated the leaves that were poor Summer's pride,
But now to reckless winds aside were cast,—
A hoary-headed Hermit I espied,
Sitting where o'er the stream an aspen hung:
His robe with divers gaudy tints was dy'd,
And his glaz'd eye upon the brook was flung,
As musing deep he seem'd the fading groves among.

Anon he steps him forth with solemn tread,
While round his feet strange mournful music rose;
And from the woods a dirge, as of the dead,
Came fitfully, lamenting Summer's close.
Meanwhile the gossamers began o'erhead
From branch to branch their airy woof to ply;
And from the ground a sickly vapour spread,
That slowly floating up shut out the sky,
Draping o'er nature's bier a funeral canopy!