Classic Poem

High o'er the woody crest of yonder hill,
The clear, cold moon through clouds serenely sails,
And glances meekly down; December's gales,
Locked in their secret caves, lie hushed and still;
Now the soft evening, beautiful but chill,
Its shadowy vesture o'er the welkin weaves;
While from yon moss-grown oak, unblest with leaves,
Is heard the Robin's melancholy trill.
In this lone spot of solitude, the rill
Leaps, musically gushing, and the star
Of dewy vesper, twinkling from afar,
Soothes down each thought of sublunary ill.
A blessed influence in this scene I find,
Which, like a dove, broods o'er my heart and mind.