Classic Poem

Then autumn comes, — and the wild woods retain,
Sighing, their golden splendour for awhile,
Maddened at heart for lack of summer's smile
And all the reckless glory of her reign.
Calm settles down o'er valley, hill, and plain,
And quiet meadow and red-leafed defile, —
And fair blue glimpses in the skies beguile,
Nor yet the first frost stiffens in the lane.

The calm of autumn round our brows we bind,
Love, for a circlet: not the summer day
Brought more of peace than this sky cold and grey
And this soft-whispering faint unfiery wind,
And, in the West, the sunset's tender rose,
Wherethrough the soul of all past passion glows.