Classic Poem

Night over Princeton is all drenched through with blue;
Over the blue slate and black massed shadows, blue;
And through it all, out of the thin light,
Weaving a golden web for golden flies,
The tragic spider of the skies,
The moon. Over Princeton, space and blue night.
It is there, it is there,
So keenly that it gives us pain!
We that are so young that it gives us pain
Feel still a cold wind moving through our hair.

You there under the eaves,
Your light
Ruffling with yellow the wet leaves,
You lover of Shelley, shut away from night,
Say, did you think
Because we did not wear
The bare white throat, the disordered hair,
The fine romantic dress,
The pale luxury of despair,
That space torments us less?
Oh! we are tired of waiting by a chink
Which never widens to light.
Now, it is a necromancer's robe of blue,
With gold worked through,
With pentagons of the color of gold and points of light.