Classic Poem

The earth was made in twilight, and the hour
Of blending dusk and dew is still her own,
Soft as it comes with promise and with power
Of folded heavens, lately sunset-blown.

Then we who know the bitter breath of earth,
Who hold her every rapture for a pain,
Yet leave the travail of celestial birth
To wipe our tears upon the dusk again.

But vain; the spirit takes, in sovereign mood,
A sure revenge, as in some tree apart
A whippoorwill sets trembling all the wood,—
The silence mends more quickly than the heart.