Classic Poem

A sound as of the falling leaves
While yet the summer dies,
When the tired wind no longer grieves,
And only the silence sighs;

A grace as of the mist that clings
In tops of faded trees,
Or where the gray-beard thistle swings
In pastures of the bees;

A scent as of the wilding rose
Fond Summer's heart must keep,
In dreamland of the under-snows
Sweetening all her sleep;

A fair face out of memory
And love's long brooding made,
Too fair for rude reality,
Too real for a shade; —

Are these thy gift, lone Winter-star,
Hung 'twixt the night and day?
They come with thee, and from afar;
Chance up thy golden way.