Classic Poem

It is a night too silver-sweet for sleep,
The stars shine softly bright, and delicate airs
Play through my open window languidly,
With summer perfume on their gentle wings,
Robbed from deep-bosomed roses. Yonder streak
Of paly gold marks where the sun went down
In burning glory; and now the rising moon
Half hides her blood-red orb behind those elms
That whisper to each other. Silent it is,
Most silent, save when from the meadow deep
The corncrake calls her mate, or far away
A watchdog bays; so silent that you seem
To hear the growth of all things as the dew
Sinks down refreshfully, and seem to feel
The throb of Nature's pulses, and the wings
Of Time stealthily waved with downy beat.
The starlight stillness draws me: I must roam,
Past my still garden; past the pastures low
Breathing of meadow-sweet; up this dim lane
Into the dewy woods, led by the light
Of the new-risen moon. A sudden joy,
A shudder of deep delight, thrills to my heart,
To be alone, hid in the nightly haunt
Of that fair Spirit whose permanent essence fills
Each tiniest leaf with living beauty. Here,
Where the wood-smells are sweetest, where the dew
Lies pearliest on the balmy eglantine,
And each clear drop a soul of fragrance takes
From curvy trumpets of the woodbine trails
Wreathing dark-gloried hollies; where the flowers
Of maiden-pure wild roses strew the grass
With delicate petals, — one might suddenly come
On some quaint scene of elfin revelry.