Classic Poem

An evening born for dreams! upon the shore
Lies the long glory in her vanishing
Of day grown tender ere she is no more;
The light is love's own presence; everything
Is sacred in that joy; nature must sing
Low to herself, her cradle-song! the same
She sang of old and made the meadows sing;
That was when faith was young, — ere unfaith came.

Late lingered, sporting in their world of bliss,
The wingid creatures bred to haunt the wave;
Ah! who can tell if aught removed from this
Our joy, may be the joys of those who lave
Their wing, and flit upon the marge, and save
Themselves from death, where, toying two by two,
They seek the awful hand that comes to pave
The sandy highways fresh for footprints new.

Sudden the stillness and the rapture end;
Death has rushed in! a shot laid one bird low,
While one, to silence winging, — with no friend, —
In solitude upon his way must go!
The waves are dark; perchance he may not know
His path, for who can know when left alone,
And darkness falls on all, above, below,
Ah! who can know his way when love is gone!

But to the mind that has conceived such death
And brings this misery upon the world,
To him who sees not that the lightest breath
Sacred within the bird or blossom curled
In bliss, a mystery of life close-furled;
On him whose heart cares not for nature's heart, —
Upon his head one day a bolt is hurled,
And in the death he feared not he has part.