Classic Poem

If, haply, when our sun has reached its west,
And Night comes, stealthy, stealing o'er our souls,
It should be our last destiny to rest
Where the blue arc its spangled field unrolls;
If such should chance to be my fortune bright,
I would not seek the side of yon North Star
To watch the revels of the orbs of light
And catch their music coming from afar.

No, I would hie to thee, sweet planet-bride,
And in thy silver smile be amply blest,
There to behold thee charm the eventide
Till lovers sped to put their love to test;
Nor care how lordly Jupiter might ride,
Or swift Orion push his endless quest.