Classic Poem

Along the slopes the fading stubbles show
And in the woods a purple vapor swims,
While hickory-nuts from the wind-shaken limbs
Drop down and nestle in the leaves below;
The sumach burns with ever-deepening glow
And shadows lurk about the shallow rims
Of silent pools; while eastward slowly dims
The penciled flight of a departing crow.

And you and I here on this russet hill
Drink deep the beaker of Autumnal wine
Held to our lips, and feel the nameless thrill
That ebbs and flows in changing shade and shine;
The breeze is dead; the trees are rapt and still
As pilgrims kneeling at a desert shrine.