Classic Poem

While moonlight shoots with downward stroke
On cows that lie beside the oak
Asleep upon the sloping ground,
And rooks all roost with soundless bill
Within the wood, below the hill
In lofty trees by ivy bound
I walk; but what can then be seen?
The landscape pale instead of green.

And down below the wood, the brook
Flows rambling on, from nook to nook,
Through meads along its pooly track,
Whereto no cattle come to drink;
Nor bears the bridge from brink to brink
The steps of walkers o'er its back;
And what by night can there be seen
But willows pale instead of green?

But ever fair before my sight
The landscape seems by day and night,
And through the year, at ev'ry tide,
When white with daisies, or with may,
Or hoar-frost glittering on the spray,
Or brown with bennets, summer-dried,
Or when the oak tree's head is seen
With leaves all brown instead of green.

But, though so lonely there I stroll,
Full many shapes before my soul
Seem one by one to come and go;
And one that smiles, unlost from sight,
Walks here, at whiles, in evening light,
But not in nights of frost or snow,
Lest I might see, with Spring o'er head,
Her cheek ash pale instead of red.