Classic Poem

Midnight has stolen on me—sound is none,
Save when light tinkling cinders, one by one,
Fall from my fire—or its low glittering blaze
A faint and fitful noise at times betrays,
Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught
At intervals. It is the hour of thought—
Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free,
Memory should wake and fancy fly to thee?