Classic Poem

TO-DAY the sun has steadfast been and clear.
No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat,
But, with the twilight, comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns grey and drear,
The trees are stricken with a sudden fear.
O wind forlorn, that sayeth nothing sweet,
With what foreboding message dost thou greet
The dearest month buTone of all the year?
Ah, now it seems I catch the moan of seas
Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease;
I see in thought that lamentable array,
And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.