Classic Poem

Day sinks in rosy vestments that, afar
Spread o'er the billows, as with guardian office,
To shelter his decline. Gorgeous in gold
And purple, fall the curtains of the west,
In the same gracious duty;—his repose
Screening from vulgar gaze of those who late
Had flourish'd in his favor. Now they fleet,
Those clouds of glorious garniture and shade,
Changing their apt varieties of form,
No less than hue and loveliness, to lines
That melt even while they linger, in the embrace
Of the fast-rising Night; who, like a mother,
Takes all within her fold. A little while,
And darkness sways the ocean, whose great waves
Grow sullen as they murmur through the gloom,
Resentful of its shadows.—But anon,
Comes forth the maiden Moon,—her sickle bent
For service in these fields; a glorious blade,
Of silver, that subdues them at a stroke,
Leaving the keen reflection of its edge
On every heaving hillock as she goes!
How rare the hush that follows! Not a wave
Lifts its rebellious head; but, lawn'd in light,
Subdues itself most willing to the embrace
Of that perfecting beauty which makes all
Her tribute objects precious, though obscure!
How sudden sinks the wind, that, but a while,
Took a capricious play upon its vans,
And shook our streamers out! The heavenly things
Seem brooding o'er our path; the great abyss
Of deep and sky, flush'd with intelligent forms,
The herds of eyes, the numerous flocking stars,
Gazing in wonder on the serene march.