Classic Poem

As dusky twilight slowly dwindles,
Night's splendid spindles
Spin and turn,
Till into flame the welkin kindles,
And in the Bay the billows burn,—
Till overhead
In meadows red,
The stars like phantom flowers unfold,
And all the surf is silver thread,
Embroidered on a cloth of gold.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now huddled on a smouldering saffron sky
Around the last red embers of the light,
A bunch of bare, black breasts, the Esterels lie
Suckling the lovely children of the Night,—
The breezes, and the clouds, and stars. And soon
A silver moon
Sets feet like lilies on the surges white
And dances, dances, dances to their tune,
Laughing with sheer delight;
While green Théoule,
The Beautiful,
Smiles in her happy sleep;
And, in the East,
Lurking afar,
A headland, like a long, black, crawling beast
Crouches to leap
Upon the Evening Star.