Classic Poem

Friend ! the year is overgrown:
Summer like a bird hath flown,
Leaving nothing (fruits nor flowers)
Save remembrance of sweet hours;
And a fierce and froward season,
Blowing loud for some rough reason,
Rusheth from a land unknown.

Where is laughing May, who leapt
From the ground when April wept?
Where is rose-encumbered June?
July, with her lazy noon?
August, with her crown of corn?
And the fresh September morn?
Will they come back to us, — soon? — soon?

Never! Time is overgrown!
All that e'er was good is flown!
All things that were good and gay
(Dance, songs, smiles,) have flown away;
And we now must sing together
Strains more sad than autumn weather;
And dance upon a stormy ground,
Whilst the wild winds pipe around,
A dark and unforgotten measure,
Graver than the ghost of pleasure;
Till at last, at Winter's call,
We die, and are forgot by all!