Classic Poem

The summer evening
Bright wreaths is weaving,
Round vale and hill;
The dewy flowers
Perfume the bowers,
And all is still.

The moon shines brightly,
The birds rest lightly
Among the trees.
The reapers, singing,
Are homeward bringing
Their yellow sheaves.

Now day is over,
The little rover
Must be at rest.
Till purple morning
Awakes the dawning,
In glory drest.