Classic Poem

And we thought of wilderness
That bore the thousand angels,
That strew the dust
As fine as frost
Upon the fancied candles.

O, black as autumn night
Are fed the holy forests
That fertilized the grain,
That breathes the birth
Of chanted aurists.

The soaring swan of danger
That held the mighty plain —
The bitter seed of glittering age
Seems glad to mourn its twain.