Classic Poem

We may saunter out still at evening tide,
But not on the naked brow
Of the hill, where no tree outholds a bough
To shelter our windward side;
But out by the wall and row
Of limes, with their leaves below us.

And wear not your shoes too thin to tread
The dead leaves on the danky ground,
Nor under the wind-flung twigs go round
To-night with unhooded head;
And muffle your shoulders warm
From blasts of the wind now stormy.

The sun at an earlier evening sinks,
And sooner the daylight wanes,
And earlier through the window panes
The red-burning candle blinks;
And instead of a shade we seek
A screen from the west wind's bleakness.

The daisies of summer's burning day,
Once thick where you walk'd in white,
And the butterflies, then in gleaming flight,
At last are all passed away;
But you over bennets brown
Still smile under clouds' dark frownings.