Classic Poem

All things which live and are, love quiet hours.
Sometimes, indeed, the waves caught up by storms,
Kiss Heaven and murmur, but they straight retire.
Sometimes, the red and busy Earthquake lifts
His head above the hills and looks on us.
Sometimes a star drops. Sometimes Heaven itself
Grows dark, and loses its celestial blue.
But calm returneth. Thus doth man (made fit
To league with Fortune in her varying moods)
Rise on the wings of fear, or grow love-mad,
Yet sinks at last to earth, and dreams in quiet.