Classic Poem

Drum, bugle and sackbut are hushed for the night.
Twelve thousand angels with girded sword
By King Solomon's bed keep watch and ward:
To the left six thousand, and six to the right.

From sorrowful dreams they shield his sleep.
If so much as a frown his forehead shades,
The night is aflame with flashing blades —
Twelve thousand swords from their scabbards leap.

But softly back to its scabbard slips
Each angel-sword, for vanished now
Is the night-bred fear, and the sleeper's brow
Is smooth, and he murmurs with dreamy lips:

" O Shulamite! the lord am I
Of this realm; the lands their tribute bring;
I am Israel's and Judah's King,
But thou lovest me not, so I wither and die. "