Classic Poem

Soft the all-embracing moonlight,
Holds the lone one in its arms,
And the nerves, high strung to sorrow,
With its lambent touch disarms.
From its softness I could model
Many an image fair and free,
But to-night I yield this power,
It shall work its will on me.

Oh! this weary human longing
For companions all mine own,
Oh! these eyes bereft of beauty,
Oh! this ear, unblest of tone!
Oh! these lips that, prest to marble
Turn to marble with its cold,
Oh! these dreams, whose empty thronging
Leaves the heart, all unconsoled,—

Could a dove caress the silence
With the healing of her wings;
Could some dear-bought heavenly treasure
Stand for earth's belovèd things;
Through the gracious ministration
Of the gentle summer night,
Free of shadows, blest in longing,
I could soar to life and light.