Classic Poem

The glory of Summer
Is faded and fled;
The wreaths that adorn'd her
Are dying or dead;
The Autumn is coming,
And strong in his blast,
Will open to Winter
A passage at last.

O, how to my spirit
It seemeth to say,—
“Thus, too, is thy Summer
Fast fleeting away;
And the things which thou lovest,
Though pleasant they be,
And the friends thou hast chosen,
Are fading with thee.

Dost thou covet a Summer
More certain of bliss?—
Go seek thee a country
Far brighter than this;
Where the joys thou hast lost
Thou shalt never deplore,
And the friends thou hast chosen
Shall quit thee no more.”