Classic Poem

The moon is up, the stars are out,
The wind is in the naked tree;
And up and down and all about
Pipes the winter minstrelsy.

Weird shapes whisk here and there,
Betwixt the boles and bushes brown;
They skim along the ledges bare,
They dance the jaggy gulches down.

The moon is up, the stars are out,
Pipes on the winter minstrelsy;
They wave at us, the ghostly rout,
Beck my merry mates and me.

Aha, and had they heart's desire;
The phantom rabble — if they knew
The fling and crackle of the fire,
The sibilation of the brew!