Classic Poem

The shade of autumn, summer's turn,
Winters, spring, the efforts of frost—
They here but tell
Close to us well
The mourn of cost.

The valley of forms, trod here below,
In superficial aspect felt,
As crowns of yore
There shape in store,
That shine a pallid gilt.

But nigh, god sees god
Complete which causes create,
Names the lowliest divine
And still sees them within
His perfect meet.