Classic Poem

O' ER the dark woods, surging, solemn,
Hung the new moon's silver ring;
And in white and naked beauty,
Out from Twilight's luminous wing,
Peered the first star of the eve; —
'T was the time when poets weave
Radiant songs of love's sweet passion,
In the loom of thought sublime,
And with throbbing, quick pulsations
Beat the golden web of rhyme.

On a hillside very lonely
With the willows' dewy flow
Shutting down like sombre curtains
Round the silent beds below,
Where the lip from love is bound.
And the forehead napkin-crowned, —
I beheld the spirit-haunted —
Saw his wild eyes burn like fire,
Saw his thin hands, clasped together,
Crush the frail strings of his lyre,
As, upon a dream of splendor
His abraded soul was stretched,
And across the heart's sad ruins
Winged imaginations reached
Toward the glory of the skies —
Toward the love that never dies.

In a tower, shadow-laden,
With a casement high and dim,
Years agone there dwelt a maiden,
Loving and beloved by him.
But while singing sweet one day
A bold masker crossed her way.

Then — her bosom softly trembling
Like a star in morning's light —
Faithless to her mortal lover
Fled she forth into the night. —
A great feast for her was spread
In the Kingdom overhead.

Woe, oh woe! for the abandoned;
Dim his mortal steps must be;
Death's high priest his soul has wedded
Unto immortality! —
Twilight's purple fall, or morn,
Finds him, leaves him, weary, lorn.

In her cave lies Silence, hungry
For the beauty of his song;
Echoes, locked from mortal waking,
Tremble as he goes along,
And for love of him pale maids
Lean like lilies from the shades.

But the locks of love unwinding
From his bosom as he may,
Buries he his soul of sorrow
In the cloud-dissolving day
Of the spirit-peopled shore
Ever, ever, evermore.