Classic Poem

It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
The last still sleep; and feel no touch of fear,
Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gathers in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude — of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then — as if our sins were all forgiven —
And all our tears were wiped — and we in heaven!

It is that hour of quiet extacy,
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy:
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers, are betrayed!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard — and many a lute,
Is touched amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom — is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses in their height,
Are talking faintly to the evening light:
When every cave and grot — and bower and lake,
And drooping flowret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest — and the blue skies swim
In lustre, warm as sunshine — but more dim:
When all the holy centinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.