Classic Poem

Still burns at Heaven's gate thy golden torch,
All-conquering Sun, and in thy flame at morn
The wearied nations rise; thyself, unwearied,
Urging on the year, and pouring down thy fires
On the delicate flowers, that still trusting ope
Their little half-shut bells.
Above us far
The painter of the dark floods her cold light
Across the dewy meads, with the still stars
Companions of her coil. So the first day,
Had burnt both sun and star, so burnt, so cooled,
As now they lend a virtue to our fields,
Where slow thro' modest valleys creep the streams,
Nor leap to cataracts. So, to the first,
They spoke in kindred voices, and compelled
Just admiration. And, to the last,
If e'er the race die out, they still may speak,
Thus, in an outward dialect. Of this,
We phrase not here; neither how from their seeds
Sprang out the progenies of things, and rose
To haughty empire or commanding state.