Classic Poem

Queen of the stars, that ridest forth on high
Amid the silver-skirted clouds of night,
O'ershining proudly from the zenith sky
The gloomy wood upon the southern height;
Now day with busy life and golden light
Has sunk away below the western sky;
And sleep-bound labourers have shut their sight
From voiceless fields and streams that round them lie.

Glory of night, still following the sun,
How sweetly does thy mildly-beaming face,—
Made bright by him,—reflect his glorious rays!

Like thine may be the course that we may run;
Reflecting in the darksome world the grace
Of our Redeemer to our endless praise.