Classic Poem

Kind is the sun: man's work he doth not scorn:
His beams are warm and blithe:
Through him the rustling leagues of golden corn
Bow to the reaper's scythe.

He laughs to see the ploughshare cleave the brown,
Rich clods asunder, till
The damp steel glitters, while the ox moves down
The slowly furrowed hill.

He gilds with fiery hues the swelling grape
By vine-leaves veiled from sight:
Nor do late autumn's drunken revels escape
His milder, wintrier light.

His ray doth pierce through city smoke and murk
The grimy roofs among,
Unto the poor girl, who, worn out by work,
Forgets that she is young,

Bidding her in the glad springtime rejoice.
Her bosom throbs, and hark,
Warmed by his cheerful light, her heart and voice
Soar upward like the lark.

But thou, moon, lov'st to silver with thy ray
Old ruins and scenes of woe;
Nor flowers nor fruit on thy fantastic way
To ripen dost thou know.

Where Hunger sleeps in darkness thy light steals
Soft thro' the window chinks,
And wakens him, so that the cold he feels
And of the morrow thinks.

On Gothic spires dost thou thyself adorn,
Milk-white and motionless;
Day-weary poets and silly folk love-lorn
Thy fickle beams caress.

Then to the graveyard: proudly dost thou there
Refresh thy weary light,
Boasting that skulls and bones, how white so'er,
As thou, are not so white.

I hate thee, with thy starched white cotta on,
Round-faced stupidity,
Unfruitful and lascivious little nun,
Sky-sister of charity.