Classic Poem

Sound the invisible trumps. In circuit vast
 The passive earth, like scene in dream, is set.
The small birds flit and sing, their dark hours past,
 And their green sojournings with dewdrops wet.

With giant boughs outspread, the oaks on high
 Brood on in slumbrous quiet in the air.
Sole in remote inane of vacant sky
 Paling Arcturus sparkles wildly fair.

Sound the invisible trumps. The waters weep.
 A stealing wind breathes in the meads, is gone.
Into their earthen burrows the wild things creep;
 Cockrow to thinning cockrow echoes on.

Avert thine eyes, sleep-ridden face! Nor scan
 Those seraph hosts that in divine array
Girdle the mortal-masked empyrean:
  Their sovereign beauty is this break of day.

Theirs is the music men call silence here;
 What wonder grief distorts thy burning eyes?
Turn to thy pillow again—in love and fear;
 Not thine to see the Son of Morning rise.