Classic Poem

Here, sitting lonely in my quiet room,
I hear the gale of chill November blow,
Mournful precursor of the wintry snow;
While all the landscape in sepulchral gloom
Enshrouded lies, expectant of the doom
Of all things lovely that on earth appear,
Round the green cradle of the new-born year,
Sprung from the sod, and bursting into bloom.
The trees cast down their red and russet leaves;
Arid and shrunken lie the scattered sheaves;
The waves, complaining, beat the rocky strand;
No more resounds the robin's tuneful cheer;
But the cold gale that sweeps o'er sea and land,
Rolls the first requiem of the dying year.