Classic Poem

Silent are the green looms
And the weavers sleep,
Nestled in the piled glooms,
Deep on deep.

Gaunt, grim trees stand,
Etched on space,
Like a mirrored woodland
On a purple vase.

Faithful in the dun hour,
Like a praying priest,
Eagerly the sunflower
Scans the East.

Corn rows, far hurled,
Mist-enthralled,
Vanish in a star world,
Sapphire-walled.

Leaning out of dim space
Over field and town,
Some hushed mother face
Peers, bends down;

Veiled in gleam-blurs.
Starry locked,
Brooding o'er the dreamers
Dawnward rocked.

Is a spirit walking?
On a sudden seem
All the sleepers talking
In a broken dream!

All along the corn rows,
O'er the glinting dews,
Hark! A muffled horn blows
Some wild news!

Listen! From a plum-close,
Like a troubled soul,
Tremulous a voice goes—
'Tis the oriole!

Star-lorn, staring,
The East goes white!
Is a Terror faring
Up the steep of night?

Boldly, gladly,
Through the paling hush,
Wildly, madly,
Cries a thrush!

Tumbled are the piled glooms
And the weavers stir:
Once again the wild looms
Drone and whir.

Glowing through the gray rack
Breaks the Day—
Like a burning haystack
Twenty farms away!