Classic Poem

The beetle from the furrow goes,
The bird is on the sheltering limb,
And in the twilight's pallid close
Sits the gray evening, hushed and dim.

In the blue west the sun is down,
And soft the fountain washes o'er
Green limes and hyacinths so brown
As never fountain washed before.

I scarce can hear the curlew call,
I scarce can feel the night-wind's breath;
I only see the shadows fall,
I only feel this chill is death.

At morn the bird will leave the bough,
The beetle o'er the furrow run,
But with the darkness falling now,
The morning for my eyes is done.

Piping his ditty low and soft,
If shepherd chance to cross the wold,
Bound homeward from the flowery croft,
And the white tendance of his fold,

And find me lying fast asleep,
Be inspiration round him thrown,
ThaThe may dig my grave down deep,
Where never any sunshine shone.