Classic Poem

The ashen-hued November sky
Makes cheerless all the chilly air;
Upon the walks the dead leaves lie,
And silence hovers everywhere.

A week ago the happy sun
Had laughed his way across the blue,
And all the trees a garb had won
More lovely than the spring-time knew.

Adown the streets a golden fire
Had leaped from tree to neighboring tree;
A flame as of some deep desire
Had scaled each bough resistlessly.

The maples here and there had shone
Like prophets in the glow of speech;
And autumn breezes faintly blown
Some subtle secret striven to teach.

The harvest had been gathered in,
A splendid smile had flushed the land,
And hearts strange joyance seemed to win
By ways they could not understand.

Across old Time's o'erarching sky
The sunset of the year had spread,
And in its rich and plenteous dye
A gracious promise we had read.

But now around us moans the wind,
And through the rustling leaves we go;
Like men with faces pinched and thinned
Against the sky the bare trees show.

A dim foreboding fills our hearts,
A sombre frown enrobes the day;
Our numbing fancy sadly parts
With shapes too briefly bland and gay.

We hear the Winter clank his chain,
His winds are gathered in the north,
His snows are marshalled on their plain
Of cloud, intent to sally forth.

Which shall our doubting hearts believe,
The grievous thoughts this drear wind brings,
Or the sweet thoughts that did receive
Glad hues from autumn's colorings?

Ah, inmost voices whisper soft,
October's skies shone not in vain;
The year, its gayer plumage doffed,
Permits the winter's sober reign.

Beneath these sad vicissitudes
Some strong reality abides,
That winter's regnance still eludes,
And into genial spring-time glides.

From state to state the wonder speeds,
It cannot rest, perforce it grows,
And past its brief eclipses leads
To times when all its splendor glows.

One summit gained, another looms,
The wonted strife begins anew;
At intervals, beyond these glooms,
The home of souls gleams on our view.