Classic Poem

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light,
All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness
To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.
I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved
At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest.
The silver sickle of the summer moon
Hangs on the purple east. The morning star,
Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn.
Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun
All restless glows and burns like burnished shield,
Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.
The forest trees are still. The babbling creek
Flows softly through the copse and glides away;
And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet
As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly.
No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds.
No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes.
The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours
Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.
And, save the swallow, whose long line of works
Beneath each gable, points to labours vast,
No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead
The kine repose; the active horse lies prone;
And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs,
Like village mothers with their babes at breast.
So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods,
That, while I know the gairish day will come,
And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares,
Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.