Classic Poem

The moon, one tree, one star.
Still meadows far,
Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.
November's night
Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see
Again that moon and star-supporting tree.
If some most quiet tune had spoken then;
Some silver thread of sounds; a core within
That sea-deep silentness, I had not known
Even such joy in peace, but sound was none —
Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.