Classic Poem

Early, looking forth, I sat,
With my window open thrown,
'Fore me lay the meadow-flat,
And I heard the streamlet moan;
From the breeze which ever blows,
From the rain-drops on the eaves,
From the faded, fallen rose,
From the poplar's yellowing leaves
Went forth strange songs of cheerless, wailing tone.
On the scene my sad thoughts fed,
And my heart, grief-burdened, said:

Gentle breezes, tell me why
All night ye did sob and sigh!
Morning, wherefore dost thou weep?
Wherefore with thy bright tears steep
The drooping flowers?
Why so sadly, slowly creep
Ye whispering hours?

To my heart, as thus it cried,
Then a still small voice replied:
Yestereve bright summer died,
Laughing Summer, Nature's pride.
Tearful Autumn, golden-tress'd
Came, upon the south-wind borne,
Summer met her, kiss'd, caress'd,

Sweetly bade no longer mourn.
Autumn's tears have trait'rous proved!
Sigh, alas!
Summer's slain by her she loved!
Weep, alas!
Autumn sits upon her throne
Dreary death she loves alone.
Yestereve did Summer die
Therefore do the breezes sigh.

Lowly then I bent my head,
Grieving too for summer dead;
Slowly passed the hours unheeded,
While from all around proceeded, —
From the breeze which ever blows,
From the rain-drops on the eaves,
From the faded, fallen rose,
From the poplar's yellowing leaves, —
One low, melancholy strain
Ever sounding the refrain:
Yestereve did Summer die
Therefore doth all Nature sigh.