Classic Poem

This hour is given to peace:-
The downward-slanting sunbeams graze the vale
Where Even breathes her stealthy gathering gray;
And o'er white stubble-plots, the sheaves
Like walls of gold stretch out their ripe array.

Upon the green slope sward
The hedgerow elms lie pencill'd by the sun
In greener greenness: and, athwart the sky,
Dotted like airy dust, the rooks
Oar themselves homeward with a distant cry.

And the whole vale beneath,
To Castle Lammas' violet-bosom'd height,
With all its wealth outspread-of harvest hopes
Half green, half russet-gold, runs up
As a fair tapestry shaken o'er the slopes.

It is an utter calm!
The topmost ash-tree sprays have ceased to wave;
The wood-dove checks her sweet redoubled moan;
And e'en the gray-wall'd cottages
Sleep 'mid their crofts like things of Nature's own.

I hear the shepherd's call;
The white specks gather to the crowding fold,
Their lowly palace of unvex'd repose:
While o'er the chambers of the sun
Float filmy fleeces of empurpled rose.

And now the silent moon
Lifts her pale shield above a glassy sea,
And from the highest cloud the sunbeams cease:
Till, tranced in Nature's holy hour,
The Time-sick heart renews its ancient peace.

Then in the soul we know
The presence of our dear ones: Love binds up
The sore of life, and pours himself in balm:
While e'en the memories of the dead
Glide painless through the breast in star-like calm.