Classic Poem

How sweet it is when twilight wakes
A many-voiced eve in May, —
When Sylvia's western casement takes
The farewell flame of day:

When cattle from the upland lead
Or drive their lengthening shadows home;
While bringing from the odorous mead
Deep pails of snowy foam.

The milkmaid sings, and, while she stoops,
Her hands keep time; the night-hawk's wail
Pierces the twilight, till he swoops
And mocks the sounding pail.

Then sings the robin, he who wears
A sunset memory on his breast,
Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers
To the red shrine of the west.

Deep in the grove the woodland sprites
Start into frequent music brief;
And there the whip-poor-will recites
The ballad of his grief.

The ploughs turn home; the anvils cease;
The forge has faded with the sun;
The heart of the loom is soothed to peace,
And the toiling day is done.