Classic Poem

Since harvest pass'd from out this lonely gate,
Which strains and clatters now in winter's flaw—
With all the merry groups that stirr'd or sate
Among the red wheat, stemm'd with amber straw,
How changed is all the scene! changed by the law
Of death—and I a weary term must wait,
Till once again the seasons reinstate
The glory and the beauty which I saw!
'Twas here I watch'd the mighty landscape stretch'd
To the far hills, through green and azure grades;
'Twas here I studied all its lights and shades;
And from this field, one golden morn, I fetch'd
Some hues for those small tablets, where I paint
My sweetest thoughts, ere they wax cold and faint.