Classic Poem

Back where their parent storm sits on the sea,
The broken clouds fly fast;
Rolled up like some defeated enemy
That over shoulder glances threateningly,
Contending to the last.

The sullen monotone of falling rain
And restless wind is done;
The drops are dry upon the window pane,
And on the village spire the glistening vane
Points toward the setting sun.

Between the columns of the woodland glows
The glory of the west;
Parterres of flower clouds, whence night bestows
A maiden-knot of jessamine and rose
To deck the young moon's breast.