Classic Poem

The thin white clouds serenely move
Athwart the blue ethereal dome;
The silent stars are bright above,
Each in his own eternal home,
Filling the solemn void of night,
With effluence of primal light.

Ye silent stars! I feel that nought,
Or heart, or world, alone can be,
And know, by human feeling taught,
That over all yon trackless sea,
The myriad worlds that round me shine,
Are linked in sympathy to mine.

Alas! each clear unsullied star
Is but another earth like this;
The same wild hopes, and feelings are
Throughout the infinite abyss:
The same vain thirst to love and know,
And all the mystery of woe.

Yet though strange grief within be folded,
The rays we see are pure and still:
Their orbs to shine on us were moulded
By the great Spirit's plastic will;
And this dark spot, which we contemn,
Lives in eternal light for them.

Though vexed within by countless woes,
They sink not underneath the wound:
By means, which God on all bestows,
The solace of their grief is found.
Leaning, like seraphs, from above,
They fill the skies with light and love.

To those who feel, the power is given
This sign of mystery to scan,
And draw down from the stars of heaven,
A lesson for the heart of man,
That it should cherish, in all grief,
Its own affections, as relief.

By works of love the soul must be
To its own happiness refined;
And thus invincible and free,
Weave ever round the subject mind
(Though gloomy as the wings of night)
An atmosphere of holy light.