Classic Poem

Leaves are lingering yet upon the trees,
The branches waving sadly in the breeze;
Though glorious tints of autumn are on these,
The shadow of decay is over all.

Bright russet tinges in the wooded dells,
Gay crimson flushes where the squirrel dwells,
And in the darksome glen, where magic spells
Seem, like the night, on everything to fall.

Grim Winter threatens now to come apace,
And bleak East winds now do the dead leaves chase;
November glooms are over every place,
The frosty rime is on the poplar tall.

Soon there will come the angry bitter wind,
Rifling the forests,—with its gusts unkind—
Of all their golden leaves, but ivy twined
O'er gnarléd trunks lists never to the call.

The seasons come and go and all the leaves;
The swallow gently twitters 'neath the eaves,
But Summer past, deserts us, never grieves:
The ivy clings for ever on our wall.

The old tree dies, but still the ivy clings,
As though it were amongst the sentient things;
And o'er the crumbling ruin hidden springs,
Near holy wells, and where the cuckoos call.

So steadfast friend will ever through the strife,
And turmoil of our constant changing life,
Cling to us always, like true wedded wife,
Though life be ending and all pleasures pall.