Classic Poem

A bird ran up the onyx steps of night,
Seeking the moon upon her silver throne;
But stars confused him with their insolent light
And left him in the friendless skies, alone.

He watched the winds, disheveled and awry,
Hurling the clouds, like pillows from their beds;
He saw the mountain-peaks that nudged the sky,
Take off the wreaths of sunset from their heads.

He heard the storms, a troupe of headstrong boys,
(Locked up as punishment for howling tears)
Beat on the ebony doors with such a noise,
That all the angels had to hold their ears.

Frightened, he left the halls of thundering sound
For a less dazzling height, a lowlier dream…
And, perching on a watery bough, he found
The moon, her white laugh rippling from the stream.