Classic Poem

All live and move to the poetic eye.
The winds have voices, and the stars of night
Are spirits throned in brightness, keeping watch
O'er earth and its inhabitants; the clouds,
That gird the sun with glory, are a train,
In panoply of gold around him set,
To guard his morning and his evening throne.
The elements are instruments, employed
By unseen hands, to work their sovereign will.
They do their bidding; — when the storm goes forth,
'T is but the thunderer's car, whereon he rides,
Aloft in triumph, o'er our prostrate heads.
Its roar is but the rumbling of his wheels,
Its flashes are his arrows, and the folds
That curl and heave upon the warring winds,
The dust, that rolls beneath his coursers' feet.