Classic Poem

Still is the leaden night:
The film-eyed moon
Spills hardly any light,
But nods to sleep. And soon
Through five broad parishes there is no sound
But the far melancholy wooing
Of evil-minded cats; and the late shoeing
Of some unlucky filly by the ford.

For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,
But for the uncomfortable hooving
Of midnight cows a-row in Parson's Lag;
— That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.

The silver mist that slumbers in the hollow
Dreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,
So sleeps uneasy: but no breezes follow,
Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.
I think this is the most unhappy night
Since hot-cheeked Hecuba wept up the dawn:
There never was a more unhappy night,
Not that when Hero's lamp proved unavailing,
Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing.

There is no reason for unhappiness,
Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,

And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,
And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.

And yet, as if outraged by some long tune
A dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon.