Classic Poem

The wood is bare: a river-mist is steeping
—The trees that winter's chill of life bereaves:
Only their stiffened boughs break silence, weeping
——Over their fallen leaves;

That lie upon the dank earth brown and rotten,
—Miry and matted in the soaking wet:
Forgotten with the spring, that is forgotten
——By them that can forget.

Yet it was here we walked when ferns were springing,
—And through the mossy bank shot bud and blade:—
Here found in summer, when the birds were singing,
——A green and pleasant shade.

'Twas here we loved in sunnier days and greener;
—And now, in this disconsolate decay,
I come to see her where I most have seen her,
——And touch the happier day.

For on this path, at every turn and corner,
—The fancy of her figure on me falls:
Yet walks she with the slow step of a mourner,
——Nor hears my voice that calls.

So through my heart there winds a track of feeling,
—A path of memory, that is all her own:
Whereto her phantom beauty ever stealing
——Haunts the sad spot alone.

About her steps the trunks are bare, the branches
—Drip heavy tears upon her downcast head;
And bleed from unseen wounds that no sun stanches,
——For the year's sun is dead.

And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted:
—And birds that love the South have taken wing.
The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted,
——Weeps, and despairs of spring.