Classic Poem

Lorn , hooded woodlands, wintry, bare,
Against the wild November sky;
With what hushed patience, in your care,
You let the biting blast go by.

It roars like madness round the world,
And strikes you like a shoreward sea,
Soon far its pinions rude are hurled,
And you, erect and free.

Beneath the comfort of your sere,
Bleak dream of loud November woe,
The frail, fair children of the year
Are cradled in your heart's warm glow.

There sheltered 'neath your iron might,
That fronts the icy wolfhound's breath,
The hopes of all the year lie light,
In frosty dream of death.

I, too, have felt the wintry rage
And tooth of rude, unkindly fate;
Would that I might its blasts engage,
Like you, possess my soul and wait: —

Like you, in patience, meet the storms
Of life's November's surge and stress;
Strong 'gainst its ill of iron alarms,
Tender toward its great helplessness.

So build my life like yours above
Earth's dream of frail futurity,
In all that godlike strength that love
Ordained that it should be.