Classic Poem

I hear the cawing of some drifting crows,
Beneath in villages the watch-dog blows
His bayings to the scene, and King-birds shriek,
And stronger breezes fan the happy cheek,
While purest roseate turns the western sky,
Laughing to think that night has drawn so nigh.
And like a ball of melted iron glows
The sinking sun, leaves his last veil, and throws
Upon the Eastern hills a gentle red,
Upon those skies his rosy pencil spread,
Then dies within that stormy mountain cloud,
That masks him proudly in a leaden shroud.