Lament, O Muse, and heave a suspiration, Make me an epicedium, a threne, An ode to fit my humid lachrimation, A dirge ultramarine! For heavy I, and supercharged with woe, On reading that the Astor House must go. Thou noble inn where oft I (Crys of "Louder") Repaired to find a frugal bit of lunch; Where grew the city's only perfect chowder And hot Jamaica punch— So deep my woe that thou art to be razed I question it can fittingly be phrazed. Farewell, farewell! If Byron I may borrow— I read of thee in many an Alger tome, Unthinking that, in age and bowed with sorrow, I'd spill to thee a pome; Unknowing that some day I should deplore The announcement that thou wert to be no more. Yet though my trend be super-sentimental, Thine end I truly do not mind a bit; My grief for that is wholly incidental, This is my woe, to wit: The riveting and blasting that I hear— Shades of the Woolworth tower!—another year! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MORAL ESSAYS: EPISTLE 4. TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL BURLINGTON by ALEXANDER POPE COLUMBUS [AUGUST 3, 1492] by JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER EHEU, FUGACES! by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS DEAD IN HIS BED by ADDIE LUCIA BALLOU THE DESERT WIND by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE HULDRA-WOMAN by STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE HEARTH SONG by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 1. A LITTLE BREATH I'LL BORROW by THOMAS CAMPION |