Classic Poem

The morn has chased the shades of night,
The streams grow bright beneath her eye;
A golden veil of purple light
Hangs o'er the rosy eastern sky.

To catch the sun's awakening rays
Upon the turf still wet with dew,
With trembling haste the rose displays
Her crimson chalice to the view.

A sweeter zephyr fills the place,
The birds in sweeter concert sing,
More closely in a fond embrace
Around the elm the vine doth cling

Amid these shades so calm and still,
All things partake of my delight—
Fresh turf, fair sky, transparent rill,—
Ah! can you know she comes to-night?