Classic Poem

All eyes that see are poring on the West,
Where the rich-tressed traveller of the day
(Though faded are the splendours which he drest
At morning in, when fresh he took the way
That wearied him, in the bright affluence
Of orient pomp) still showeth glorious
As a proud prince returned from fields victorious,
But silent in his pride — 'tis so intense! —
Now he is gone, lone Silence thinks his praise;
Pale, pensive Evening weepeth his decease;
And there's an awful stillness — as of death,
And the last breathing of a good man's breath,
Who ends in serious hope life's term of days: —
Ah, love, may our lives' close be all as full of peace!