Classic Poem

When the feud of hot and cold
Leaves the autumn woodlands bare;
When the year is getting old,
And flowers are dead, and keen the air;

When the crow has new concern,
And early sounds his raucous note;
And — where the late witch-hazels burn —
The squirrel from a chuckling throat

Tells that one larder's space is filled,
And tilts upon a towering tree;
And, valiant, quick, and keenly thrilled,
Upstarts the tiny chickadee;

When the sun's still shortening arc
Too soon night's shadows dun and gray
Brings on, and fields are drear and dark,
And summer birds have flown away, —

I feel the year's slow-beating heart,
The sky's chill prophecy I know;
And welcome the consummate art
Which weaves this spotless shroud of snow!