Classic Poem

Sad is the earth; the village church appears
Snow-robed, and wearily the yew forlorn
Droops o'er the grave snow-laden. Starting tears
Are frozen on the eyelids of the Morn.
In vain we wait for some full-bursting ray
To flood the Earth with glory, or warm showers
To bathe the Earth's chill'd bosom, and adorn
Her faded beauty. Through the fog-wrapped day
Slow peal the muffled dirges for the hours;
But hark! From off the snowy distant height
The storm-voice hoarsely rumbles, calling to the Night.

We love thee not, stern winter! Thou hast bared
The woods of verdure, and of bloom the mead.
When Autumn sorrowing for flight prepared,
Feeling thy chilly breath the land o'erspread,
She culled the meadows as she passed along
And gathered in her bosom the rich prize
Of fairest blossom, and the rest are dead.
The woods are gloomy, reft of leaf and song,
For now no longer, when the sunlight dies,
From bosky dells the mellow warblings float
Of nightingale, heart-soothing with its dreamful note.

But hew tough branches from the deathless holly,
And rob the orchard of the mistletoe;
Deck the great hall, for we will yield to folly
And drown with merriment the blustering Foe.
Or form the silent circle, and give ear
While he, the wisest, shall unfold rich lore
Of lands where summer breezes ever blow;
And she, the fairest, sing, the heart to cheer,
The song some poet made in days of yore
Of spring, and sunny skies, and babbling burn,
And birds, and fragrant groves, and vallies deep in fern.