Classic Poem

Poor purple lingerer of the fading year,
Whose leaves of withering blue,
Their dying sweetness drew
From suns more genial, and from skies more clear,
How tenderly and cold,
Thy blossoms now unfold,
Their veins engemm'd with winter's first pale tear!
The wild autumnal storm,
Which whistles o'er thy form,
Will in its ruthlessness exhale
Thy fainting odours on the gale,
And thou still lower hang thy humble head;
Then come, and on the tomb
Of one, whose short-liv'd bloom
Was like thine own, thy parting sweetness shed.
For she, like thee, when wintry scenes appeared,
Her modest head uprear'd,
And in her gentleness defied the blast;
Like thee, she faded slowly, day by day,
Like thine, her opening bloom exhal'd away,
When summer suns and the bright hours were past.

Poor purple lingerer of the fading year,
Whose leaves of withering blue,
Their dying sweetness drew
From suns more genial, and from skies more clear,
How tenderly and cold,
Thy blossoms now unfold,
Their veins engemm'd with winter's first pale tear!
The wild autumnal storm,
Which whistles o'er thy form,
Will in its ruthlessness exhale
Thy fainting odours on the gale,
And thou still lower hang thy humble head;
Then come, and on the tomb
Of one, whose short-liv'd bloom
Was like thine own, thy parting sweetness shed.
For she, like thee, when wintry scenes appeared,
Her modest head uprear'd,
And in her gentleness defied the blast;
Like thee, she faded slowly, day by day,
Like thine, her opening bloom exhal'd away,
When summer suns and the bright hours were past.