Classic Poem

Wisdom is on me,
Breathed from a golden moon that Autumn ripens.
The chill air is empty of all passion.
The streets are lanes where love has been;
Dead leaves cover them.

The wind's sigh is old,
No other voice has the night, save the owl's
In the sycamore of my neighbour
Between me and the moon.
There is no call of far things or wild things,
For the urge of the year is spent,
Or changed to resignation.

I do not think of Helen of Troy,
Of Juliet's balcony—and joy,
But of Saint John on Patmos
Of Antoninus tenderly mystic
Toward a mad Universe
Of sinking stars. . . .