Classic Poem

The iron twilight closes, and the steep
Gates of the day where late the light was hurled,
Swing to on silent hinges, and a sleep,
A still, white sleep is fallen on the world.
There is no stir these trackless miles around:
The Earth is turned a grey cathedral close,
Where is forgot all motion and all sound,
Beneath these smooth, obliterating snows.

One burning taper trembles ... and the sky
Curves like a dome where cloudy anthems are,
Above immaculate distances that lie
In thoughtful adoration of a star ...
Earth has her veil, and takes her silent vow:
Nothing save holiness is left her now.