Thou last pale relic from yon widowed tree, Hovering awhile in air as if to leave Thy native sprig reluctant, how I grieve And heave the sigh of kindred sympathy That thou art fallen!--for I too whilom played Upon the topmost bough of youth's gay spring; Have sported blithe on summer's golden wing; And now I see my fleeting autumn fade. Yet, 'sear...Learn More