Classic Poem

Again the leaves come fluttering down,
Slowly, silently, one by one,—
Scarlet, and crimson, and gold, and brown,—
Willing to fall, for their work is done.

And once again comes the dreamy haze,
Draping the hills with its filmy blue,
And veiling the sun, whose tender rays,
With mellowed light come shimmering through.

Softly it rests on the sleeping lake—
This filmy veil—and the distant shore,
Fringed with tangles of brush and brake,
Shows a dim blue line and nothing more.

The winds are asleep, save now and then
Some wandering breeze comes stealing by,
Softly rises, then sinks again,
And dies away like an infant's sigh.

You feel the spell of those dreamy days
I know—for your soul is in tune with mine.
You love the stillness, the tender haze;
I know—for your thoughts with my own entwine.

But this dreamy calm, this solemn hush,
The sleeping winds, and the mellow glow,
Only foretell the tempest's rush,
The icy blast, and whirling snow.

We—you and I—must bow to the frost,
When our locks are white with hoary kiss;
Our last rose scattered, its petals lost,
May our indian summer be calm—like this.