Classic Poem

He was a simple countryman, a genial soul and kind.
The evening was poetic, and to imagery inclined,
I gazed out o'er the stream and field. “How musical the leaves!”
I cried. “What web of melody their subtle rustling weaves!
The crystal waters murmur down the banks of moss and fern,
Adown the vale the sombre wail of lingering loon or hern.
Shrill, shrill the cry of night birds high, forth-floating in the air,
And fairy footfalls trip and tinkle where the fleece floats there,
In boundless billows of the unflecked, azure sea of blue.
I listen. Aye, I hear them, nearly! Nay, and do not you?”

“I b'lieve I do hear suthin',” he replied, “down in the bogs;
An' mebbe it is fairies, but mos' likely it is hogs.”

“See! See!” I cried. “The streaming splendor streaking o'er the sky,
Where chariots of cloud on starry wheels are rolling by.
See the auroral beams that stream from zenith to the sea,
Where dies away the twilight gray and Night reigns full and free.
The yellow moonlight's misty glow gilds all the scene around,
Her jeweled rays fall now ablaze the hills—the Night is crowned
With her own queenly diadem; the bright, auroral light
Is Splendor's gorgeous setting for the sable cloak of Night.
In thy mind's eye canst not descry the picture as I call:
The Queen of Night, the crown of light, the sable cloak, and all?”

The night's own splendor dazzled him. His sleepy eye he rolled.
“Doggone them sun dogs!” then he said. “They're alwus bringin' cold!”