Classic Poem

From the night-haunt where vapours crowd
The airy outskirts of the earth
A winding caravan of cloud
Rose when the morning's punctual hearth
Began to charm the winds and skies
With odours fresh and golden dyes.

It made a conquest of the sun,
And tied his beams; but, in the game
Of hoodman-blind, the rack, outdone,
Beheld the brilliant captive claim
Forfeit on forfeit, as he pressed
The mountains to his burning breast.

Above the path by vapours trod
A ringing causey seemed to be,
Whereby the orient, silver-shod,
Rode out across the Atlantic sea,
An embassy of valour sent
Under the echoing firmament.

But while the hearkener divined
A clanging cavalcade on high,
This rush and trample of the wind
Arose among the tree-tops nigh,
For mystery is the craft profound,
The sign, and ancient trade of sound.

An unseen roadman breaking flint,
If echo and the winds conspire
To dedicate his morning's stint,
May beat a tune out, dew and fire
So wrought that heaven might lend an ear,
And Ariel hush his harp to hear.