Classic Poem

When evening shades are coming on apace,
And lengthening traceries sway across the ground,
Where phantom branches dimly interlace,
And cool, sad silence reigns o'er all around,
Sad, but not sombre, far less sad than sweet,
The sweet sad silence of departing day,
When swallows, darting down the quiet street,
Twitter and play;

Then in the dusk I view thy distant form,
Skimming across the darkened fields of air,
Drinking the breath of yonder muttering storm,
Chasing the sunset to its golden lair.
And now full shrilly sounds thy piercing cry,
Far, far beyond the compass of my sight,
Amid the deepening blackness of the sky,
Bird of the night.

Not like the lazy owl that sits and mourns
With dolorous voice the dreary midnight hour,
Or through the woodland flits with cumbrous turns,
And tears the sleeping victims of his power.
Not like the falcon, bold alone in day,
When all is clear and beautiful and bright;
Through gloom and glory lies thy dauntless way,
Bird of the night.

There's something in my soul akin to thee
That loves the gloaming better than the glare,
And joys to skim the clouds of mystery,
Diving as deep as mortal mind may dare.
And, howsoe'er it be, I love thee well,
And ne'er, unmoved, can view thy airy flight,
Nor hear thy distant voice its triumph tell,
Bird of the night.