Classic Poem

In the forest shadows dim
The birds now sing an evening hymn
In tones so soft and clear and sweet;
Their sweet sublimity complete.

The crickets chirp low on the hill,
The sound of grinding at the mill
Has ceased, and in the twilight gray
The miller wends his homeward way.

Slowly, in geometric line,
O'er meadows come the lowing kine;
Soft and gentle zephyrs blow,
Along the roadside fire-flies glow.