Classic Poem

When Winter turns to Spring,
Birds that were songless make their songs resound,
Flow'rs that were flow'rless cover all the ground;
Yet 'tis no perfect thing: —
I cannot walk, so tangled is each hill;
So thick the herbs, I cannot pluck my fill.
But in the autumn-tide
I cull the scarlet leaves and love them dear,
And let the green leaves stay, with many a tear,
All on the fair hill-side: —
No time so sweet as that. Away! away!
Autumn's the time I fain would keep alway.