Classic Poem

This night first have I learn'd to prize thy boon,
I stranger and thou stranger, widow'd moon:
this night we have met, wandering, and thou couldst charm
sick brain and heart from all their burning harm;
white Lethe drown'd the world of dusty woe.
And I might feel that somewhere past its flow,
Eden, not all unmindful of my days,
had changed, an hour, to quiet hanging sprays
and uncrush'd beds of blossom, dusky-white,
that ooze with sleep and healing on the night.