Classic Poem

Dimly the shadows stretch across the seas,
With glistening frost the window pane is white;
And the blind winds go moaning through the trees—
Oh! 'tis a mournful night!

Under the rafters, where, in summer's heat,
The twittering swallow hung her nest of clay,
The new-milked heifer, sheltered from the sleet,
Chews the sweet-scented hay.

On southern slopes, hard by the leafy wold,
Where the stray sunbeams all the day kept warm,
Instinct is shepherding the harmless fold
From the ice-bearded storm.

The watch-dog, shivering couchant on the sill,
Watches the moon, slow sailing up the sky,
Nor answers, calling from the churchyard hill,
The owlet's frequent cry.

In the dim grass the little flowers are dead,
No more his song the grasshopper awakes,
And the pale silver of the spider's thread,
No wanton wild-bird breaks.

Yet does my soul, whose flights have sometimes stirred
The cloud that curtains back eternity,
Lie wailing in my bosom, like a bird,
Driven far out at sea.

On such a night my heart was wed to pain,
And joy along its surface can but gleam,
Like the red threads of morning's fiery skein
Along the frozen stream.