Classic Poem

Perchance this is love's autumn? Spring is o'er,
The budding promise of the joy to be,
And summer, bright perfection; yes, but see!
How rich the year, what precious fruit it bore,
How bounteous! Thankfully I count the store,
The golden store of mellow memories
Grown ripe in balmy winds and sunny skies,
The sunny skies that now are bright no more.

And then perchance comes winter at the last,
Tears fall like rain, and, blast on blighting blast,
The storms of gusty fortune beat and blow,
Till after all the turmoil and the stress,
Like earth beneath her veil of kindly snow.
Love sleeps in deep and calm forgetfulness.