Classic Poem

The trees that thro' the tuneful morn had made
bride-dusk for beams that pierce the melting shade
or thro' the opulent afternoon had stood
lordly, absorb'd in hieratic mood,
now stricken with misgiving of the night
rise black and ominous, as who invite
some fearful coming whose foreblown wind shall bow,
convuls'd and shuddering, each dishevell'd brow:
the garden that had sparkled thro' its sheen
all day, a self-sufficing gem serene,
hiding in emerald depths the vision'd white
of limbs that follow their own clear delight,
exhales towards the inaccessible skies,
commencing, failing, broken, scents or sighs: