Classic Poem

Shadow me, woods! and let your branches wave,
Making sweet music to my drowsy ear:
Be dim, fair moon! and through the leafy roof
Seem but a twinkling lamp; and every breeze
Die on your flowery beds, until my eyes
Yield to this pleasant heaviness!
And hark!
There is a gentle music in the air!
The moon is but a lamp, and the rude wind
Has died upon the rose!—Come, gentle dream!


This is Elysium! All the grove is fill'd
With sights and sounds of wonder:—There 's no tree,
But opening lets a goddess-forth; the streams
Send up bright shapes, that from their lilied hair
Wring out the sparkling waters; all the hills
Are starr'd with silver fires; the marble caves
Show through their ivy curtains sylvan lamps,
Lit by the glow-worm's torch; and airy songs
Bewitch the night.
This is the woodland King!
And here upon his lonely throne he sits,
Entranced, with his sweet pipe fix'd at his foot,
And listens to the revelry,—till Morn,
Led by the gray-hair'd Twilight from her couch,
Comes, like a blushing bride, to meet the Sun!