Classic Poem

TO TWILIGHT

Meek matron, Twilight! at thy silent hour,
When slow, as loth to part, in western skies
The last fine streak of glowing crimson dies,
And Vesper hastes to lead his starry power;
When the bright dew-drop on each closing flower
Trembles, as soft the lulling zephyr sighs,
And the dull bat on uncouth pinions flies
In frequent circles round his lonely tower:
Ah, then, full dearly do I love to stray
Far from the giddy rout of Comus jolly;
With folded arms alone to bend my way,
Free from the hated din of empty Folly,
Through some faint-rustling grove, or cloister grey,
Lost in the musings sweet of sainted Melancholy.