Classic Poem

The splendor of the sinking moon
Deserts the silent bay;
The mountain-isles loom large and faint,
Folded in shadows gray,
And the lights of land are setting stars
That soon will pass away.

O boatman, cease thy mellow song!
O minstrel, drop thy lyre!
Let us hear the voice of the midnight sea,
Let us speak as the waves inspire,
While the plashy dip of the languid oar
Is a furrow of silver fire.

Day cannot make thee half so fair,
Nor the stars of eve so dear:
The arms that clasp and the breast that keeps,
They tell me thou art near,
And the perfect beauty of thy face
In thy murmured words I hear.

The lights of land have dropped below
The vast and glimmering sea;
The world we leave is a tale that is told,—
A fable, that cannot be.
There is no life in the sphery dark
But the love in thee and me!