Classic Poem

The stars are pale.
Old is the Night, his case is grievous,
His strength doth fail.

Through stilly hours
The dews have draped with Love's old lavishness
The drowsy flowers.

And Night shall die,
Already, lo! the Morn's first ecstasies
Across the sky.

An evil time is done.
Again, as someone lost in a quaint parable,
Comes up the Sun.