Classic Poem

O gentle brightness of late autumn morns!
The dear Earth like a patient matron left
By all she loved and reared, still smiles and loves.
The fields low-shorn gleam with a paler gold,
The olives stretch their shadows; on the vines
Forgotten bunches breathe out mellowness,
And little apples poised upon their stems
Laugh sparkling high above the mounting sun.
Each delicate blade and bossy arching leaf
Is silvered with the dew; the plough o'erturns
The redolent earth, and with slow-broadening belt
Of furrowed brownness, makes mute prophecy.
The far off rocks take breathing colours, bathed
In the aërial ocean of clear blue;
The palm soars in the silence, and the towers
And scattered villages seem still to sleep
In happy morning dreams.