Classic Poem

The air is still. From many towers
The stroke of deep nocturnal bells
Booms sullen through the dark, and tells
To man, the fleetness of his hours.

Dew-drenched the lattice lilacs weep:
The waning street-lamp winks and dies;
Beyond, the lazy river lies,
And heaves its breast in summer sleep.

There, like a pendulum of light,
The lantern at the mast-head swings,
And casts its green and crimson rings
O'er the dusk water, through the night.

Like some grim Cyclops, looming dire,
Three miles away the lighthouse stands,
Lone guardian of his realm of sands,
A spectre, with an eye of fire.

To broken dreams that come and go,
And leave me wretched, I arise,
To lounge about the balconies,
And watch the large pale stars and slow,

That move across the solemn skies,
To sink behind the distant slopes —
Sad symbols of my vanished hopes,
That once were dreams of Paradise!

Yet as the lily lifts her bright
Dew-thirsty, golden-throated vase,
I upward look to drink the grace
And tender influence of the night.

The slow hours linger toward the morn;
The lonely thoroughfares are still;
And waning o'er the western hill
Dim Dian dips her silver horn.

All day with unremittent glare,
The sun has poured his ardent rays,
And after long midsummer days,
Brief night scarce cools the heated air.

Yet well I know along the lands,
Luxuriant vegetation shoots;
And Autumn waiteth with her fruits,
To drop them in the toiler's hands!