Classic Poem

Already o'er the west the first star shines,
And day and dark are imperceptibly linked;
The fences and pied fields grow indistinct,
Deep beyond deep the living light declines,
Still lingering o'er the westward mountain lines,
Pallid and clear; and on its silent breast
A symbol of eternal quiet rest,
Far and black-plumed, the imperturbable pines.
A few thin threads of purple clouds still float
In the serene ether, and the night wind,
Wandering in puffs from off the darkening hill,
Breathes warm or cool; and now the whip-poor-will,
Beyond the river margins glassed and thinned,
Whips the cool hollows with his liquid note.