Classic Poem

Under the stars—the wistful, mild May stars
In April-haunted skies,
There comes a dream of storm and sudden cries,
Of flashing faces, and the straining spars
That gleam an instant by the pasture-bars—
And then the vision dies.

Under the stars—the wistful stars of May—
The farm sleeps silently.
And oh what should this portent mean to me
Here where the world is lost and slips away—
Oh what have I to do with storm and spray
And children lost at sea!

Under the stars—and nothing moves that mars
The landscape as it lies;
And yet I start among unanswered cries,
Shipwreck and terror, pain and evil wars—
Under the stars—the wistful, mild May stars
In April-haunted skies.