Classic Poem

All day the stormy wind has blown
— From off the dark and rainy sea;
No bird has past the window flown,
The only song has been the moan
— The wind made in the willow-tree.

This is the summer's burial-time:
— She died when dropped the earliest leaves;
And, cold upon her rosy prime,
Fell direful autumn's frosty rime;
— Yet I am not as one that grieves, —

For well I know o'er sunny seas
— The bluebird waits for April skies;
And at the roots of forest trees
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease,
— And violets hide their azure eyes.

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown
— Beside some golden summer's bier, —
Take heart! Thy birds are only flown,
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown,
— To greet thee in the immortal year!