Classic Poem

From yon green, which 'mid th' acacia's brown and crimson leaves endeavours
Yet to linger, though no wind hath stirred, itself a leaflet severs:
And it seems a soul is dying,
Shuddering imperceptibly.

Seems the mist a veil of silver o'er the streamlet softly purling;
Through the mist the leaf falls, lost amid the water's rapid whirling.
Ah, what means the feverish sighing
Of the graveyard cypresses?

Suddenly breaks forth the sun, and o'er the morning damps prevaileth
And thro' snowy clouds across the azure sky serenely saileth:
See the frowning woods replying,
‘'Tis the spring he heraldeth!’

Smile upon me ere the winter wraps my soul in melancholy
Darkness; smile on me, O Poetry divine, O Radiance holy!
Father Homer, hear me crying
Ere the shade o'erwhelmeth me!