Classic Poem

It is a summer midnight — silent hour!
The stars look down upon a world at rest;
Closed are bright eyes, and closed the morning flower;
Night holds to earth her dewy forehead prest.

The village sleeps — upon the painted walls.
And on the graveled walks and roofs of brown,
Through old and hoary trees the moonlight falls,
In tangled, trembling net-work creeping down.

The village sleeps — yet yonder gleams a light,
From out a narrow door, wide open flung.
Sickly and wan, it sends into the night
A tale of woe upon its mournful tongue.

What is it that it tells? The village sleeps —
Sweet childhood smiles to bright dreams flitting o'er;
Love nestles in soft arms, but sorrow weeps!
Death stands relentless in that open door.

A woman kneels beside a lowly bed —
A woman humbly clad, and old and gray;
Here lies her own, her all , and he is dead!
To midnight such as this, when comes the day?

Not in this world! The touch of dewy morn
Shall wake from its soft sleep the silent town;
But till the day that never sets is born,
On this old heart is midnight folded down!