Classic Poem

— She by a sycamore,
Whose all-belated leaves yield up themselves
To the often takings of desirous winds,
Sits without consolation, marking not
The time save when her tears which still [descend]┬░
Her barred fingers clasp'd upon her eyes,
Shape on the under side and size and drop.┬░
Meanwhile a litter of the jagged leaves
Lies in her lap, which she anon sweeps off.
" This weary Martinmas, would it were summer"
I heard her say, poor poor afflicted soul, —
" Would it were summer-time." Anon she sang
The country song of Willow . " The poor soul — ┬░
(Like me) — sat sighing by a sycamore-tree ."
Perhaps it was for this she chose the place.