Classic Poem

I

The summer is over!
'Tis windy and chilly.
The flowers are dead in the dale.
All beauty has faded,
The rose and the lily
In death-sleep lie withered and pale.

Now hurries the stormwind
A mournful procession
Of leaves and dead flowers along,
Now murmurs the forest
Its dying confession,
And hushed is the holiest song.

Their " prayers of departure "
The wild birds are singing,
They fly to the wide stormy main.
Oh tell me, ye loved ones,
Whereto are ye winging?
Oh answer: when come ye again?

Oh hark to the wailing
For joys that have vanished!
The answer is heavy with pain:
Alas! We know only
That hence we are banished —
But God knows of coming again!

II

The Tkiyes man has blown his horn,
And swift the days' declining;
The leaves drop off, in fields forlorn
Are tender grasses pining.

The earth will soon be cold and bare,
Her robe of glory falling;
Already to the mourner's prayer
The last wild bird is calling.

He sings so sweetly and so sad
A song of friends who parted,
That even if it find you glad,
It leaves you broken hearted.

The copses shudder in the breeze,
Some dream-known terror fearing.
Awake! O great and little trees!
The Judgment-day is nearing!

O men! O trees in copses cold!
Beware the rising weather!
Or late or soon, both young and old
Shall strew the ground together. . . .