Classic Poem

The day was dead, with requiems of the wind;
Black grew the sunset hills against a flush
Of cold, clear yellow, and the air was lush
With scents the sunny noon had left behind.
Day's homeliest sights turned mystical, refined
Within the half-light. Solemn, slow, night's hush
Came on, soft thridden where a hidden thrush
Vented dim notes that spake a dreamful mind.
A sense of loneliness fell on the earth,
The sky seemed tranced in meditation, rest,
Or brooded fears of winter and his dearth;
A slender moon stole out upon the west,
A sickle keen that reaped the single star
That shines for lovers, wheresoe'er they are.