Classic Poem

To the Westward the wild ruins of the Tempest roll away;
And the pomp of sunset closes the long tumult of the day.

Softly thrown back from her tresses floats the winged mantle-mist;
One foot on the land is resting, — one is by the billows kissed.

All the Kingdoms and their creatures are extended round her seat;
And a Vessel, like a child's-toy rides and dances at her feet.

Rising over her left shoulder the moon waxes to her will;
And the Day's departing footsteps glorify the mountains still.

Rests a white dove in her bosom, with an olive-branch of balm;
And The heavenly Bow of Promise consecrates her brows to calm.

O the deep repose and beauty of that form who may declare,
As revealed through the transparent drapery of the twilight air!

The last light is on her forehead: at her feet the darkness cowers:
She is gazing towards the sunset, and her lap is full of flowers.

And a more than mortal Pathos over all her face is cast,
As if she were gazing backward upon all that which is past.

And a Light that is not sunlight, hovers round her lips the while,
Like the tender and prophetic intimation of a smile.

As if she were gazing forward through the sacred Mystery
Of the Infinite Hereafter and of all that is To Be.

And enraptured by the grandeur of the Vision that she saw,
And transfigured in its glory, could but gaze in silent awe!