Classic Poem

With love I watch the countless forest leaves
On summer hills and in the wooded dell,
And, oh! the lesson of that rustling page,
Which more doth teach than learned saint or sage,
The truth which sorrow's soul alone perceives,
Have I not learned it well?

All human hearts like forest leaves, I see:
They bud, they spread, they wither and turn sere,
They drink the sunshine—flutter in the gale,
Or smitten by untimely blight turn pale,
And in midsummer fall—while others be
Left through the winter drear.

Some in uplifted glory, flash and flaunt;
Some in cool, shadow-sheltered vales abide;
Some hedge the highway, daring dust and grime;
But, be they oak or aspen leaves, the time
Soon comes for all, when frosty fingers gaunt
Will lay them side by side.

Sweet is the rain, soft is the summer air,
Fair is the hill-top, lovely is the vale,
Bright is the sunshine, grateful is the shade,
Content the dew sleeps on the rustling blade;
Yon swift-winged eagle that last goal will share
With this scarce-moving snail.

The stream turns from the fountain at its birth,
And halts not on its journey to the sea;
The forest leaves forsake the native stem
To seek the breast which soon enfoldeth them;
So do all hearts sink in the silent earth,
And wist not what they be.