Classic Poem

Brown is the hill where the maples grow-
So brown, so calm, so cold and still ;

But the loving leaves creep snug and close,
And warm the feet of my dear old hill.

And they do n't forget the violets small,
Shivering and cold in the damp and wet ;

They cover them up in blankets brown,
Whispering, ' Darlings, we love you yet.'

Down in the hollow amid the ferns,

Their billowy wraps they wreath and roll ;

And they spread a carpet, rich and warm,
To keep the snow from the mouse's hole.

And the lady-slipper so shy and weak
They wrap a muffler about her throat ;

And the maiden's-hair they cover her deep,
And furnish the moss with an overcoat.