Classic Poem

Like one who lingers yet upon the sands,
Gazing his last upon the fading sail
That bears his friends afar to other lands.
I watch the bleak November daylight fail,
And, weltering in the pale and watery skies,
The dim stars falter forth, the cold moon rise.

I feel the silence on the hill and plain,
Like that chill hush which haunts an empty room
When, late deserted by a joyous train,
The lights die slowly down and all is gloom;
The cricket shrilling in the darkling wood
Adds but a drearier sense of solitude.

The last frail blossom of the year is dead,
Scentless and sere, beside the frozen rill;
The last of summer's melodists are fled,
Their nests are tenantless, their songs are still,
And, like the echo of a faint farewell,
I hear the shuddering night-wind sink and swell.