Classic Poem

The moon shone white along the road,
The summer night was still,
And the morning star like a torchlight glowed
From the top of Three Oak Hill.
The meadow grasses fed the air
With a scent deliciously fine,
And the spider spun his gossamer snare
From the blackjack tree to the pine.

Thousands of insects faintly sung
In the warmth of the southern night.
The bat flew low, and the great owl swung
Like a bell in the mystic light.
The ripe corn rustled its yellow blade,
The field-flowers woke from their swoon,
And the leaves of the wild grape lightly played
In the rays of the rising moon.

Down the road at a leisure pace
Rode Pete on his aged mare,
Whose clumsy feet left a little trace
Of dust in the silvery air.
The leather reins were dropped and hung
On the saddle-horn, and a song
Strangely pathetic the negro sung
As his piebald cantered along.
The tune was queer and the words were odd,
But the music filled the night,
As he sung of the wonderful love of God
And the shining robe of white.
His black face turned to the starry sky
Reflected stars in tears,
For Pete was happy — with seer's eye
He saw beyond the years.