Classic Poem

Every feeling at night to me becomes clearer and deeper,
Shapes that are born of our fears terrible grow in the dark—
Sounds I at once understand, e'en when o'er my book I sit inusing,
Motionless, lost in my thoughts, stung to the point of belief
In impossible things, while that which seems strangest seems easy—
In through the windows the moon shines, and the lamp burns on
Dimly beside the couch, and far in the distance a tolling
Breaks through the silence at times, filling the room with its swell;
Gladly I yield to the charm which ever hath set my heart beating,
Moistening mine eyes with night's dew, tears of its infinite joy—
Always I hear night's song, but often the melody changes:
Now 't is the clang of brass, then 't is of silver the ring.
Strange 't is that ears hear well when the mind is still working or vacant;
Thought presses fast upon thought,—wave after wave in the sea,—
Night with a mystical strength embraces, and into one fuses,
Feelings and objects around, all that we see, think, and hear;
Thus on the two-headed poppies midnight sheddeth its moisture,
Giving them power of sleep—none can that mystery tell!