Classic Poem

The sun was zenith high. A lifeless cloud
Lay in the west,
Like a dead angel lying in a shroud
With lilies on her breast.

O'erladen was the shimmering air with balm
And pollen-gold.
There reigned a silence and a halcyon calm
O'er hill and wold;

Save for the wind gasping among the trees,
The gurgle of a spring,
The momentary sound of gossip-bees
Low murmuring;

Or crackle of the ripe broom's purple pod
Bursting apart,
Or song-bird palpitating up to God
Singing its heart.

With light and butterfly the world did seem
To flicker and flit
As though the Maker slept, and in a dream