Classic Poem

O God ! this is a holy hour,
Thy breath is o'er the land;
I feel it in each little flower
Around me where I stand,—
In all the moonshine scattered fair,
Above, below me, everywhere,—
In every dew-bead glistening sheen,
In every leaf and blade of green,—
And in this silence grand and deep
Wherein Thy blessed creatures sleep.

Men say, that in this midnight hour,
The disembodied have power
To wander as it liketh them,
By wizard oak and fairy stream,
Through still and solemn places,
And by old walls and tombs, to dream,
With pale, cold, mournful faces
I fear them not; for they must be
Spirits of kindest sympathy,
Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel
The beauties of this calm night steal
Like music o'er them, while they woo'd
The luxury of Solitude.