Classic Poem

Turns Summer hence her queenly feet,
That early spring the daffodils
To kiss, and martial grasses greet,
While every flower a tear distills.

I cross the stubble fields, all sweet
With shining stalks; a longing fills
My heart, to warble and repeat
The robin in his liquid trills.

I am, too, happy when I meet
The meadow, where the mountain spills,
So lithe and musical and fleet,
Its limpid tress of brawling rills;

But stay my solitary beat —
And start, as sudden odor thrills
My brain, of spice and tropic heat —
Lo! Autumn on her brazen hills.