Classic Poem

It is an evening of profound repose:
The sun's last light is passing up the Wye;
The hills and woods, the quiet earth and sky,
More than is wont that inner world disclose,
Which they so barely cover. All is still—
So still, so little likely to surprise
The world's wayfaring sons, that it might fill
A Christian heart with strange and dim surmise.
The end perchance may come with like still power,
The world's last evening, man's last trial-hour,
When the glad Church, to whom alone is given
To read earth's types and rites with faultless art,
May see the shadows from the inner heaven
Stirring on its pale earthly counterpart.