Classic Poem

Dry leaves with yellow ferns, they are
Fit wreath of Autumn, while a star
Still, bright, and pure, our frosty air
Shivers in twinkling points
Of thin, celestial hair,
And thus one side of heaven anoints.

I am beneath the moon's calm look,
Most quiet in this sheltered nook,
From trouble of the frosty wind
That curls the yellow blade;
Though in my covered mind
A grateful sense of change is made.

To wandering men how dear this sight,
Of a cold, tranquil autumn night,
In its majestic, deep repose.
Thus shall their genius be,
Not buried in high snows,
Though of as mute tranquillity.

An anxious life they will not pass,
Nor, as the shadow on the grass,
Leave no impression there to stay;
To them all things are thought;
The blushing morn's decay,
Our death, our life, by this is taught.

O find in every haze that shines
A brief appearance without lines,
A single word, — no finite joy;
For present is a Power
Which we may not annoy,
Yet love him stronger every hour.

I would not put this sense from me,
If I could some great sovereign be;
Yet will not task a fellow man
To feel the same glad sense;
For no one living can
Feel, save his given influence.