POET, whose very dust, here shed, Is as the quick among the dead, Where revels thy carousing soul? What Hebe fills what mighty bowl, Mantling with what immortal drink? * * * * * Nay, great and blissful one! I think That, taught by Time himself to flee The taverns of Eternity, Amid yon constellations thou Drivest all night the heavenly Plough, Wooing with song some sky-nymph fair Who sits in Cassiopeia's Chair, Or half unravels on her knees That tangled net, the Pleiades, Or, at thy over amorous strain Bridling with wrath she needs must feign, Flits to a region pale and gray, Shimmers through nebula away, But wandering back, with starlike tears Yields to the Ploughman of the Spheres. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAUGHTERS OF JEPHTHA by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE MEMORY OF MARTHA by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR MEMORIAL TO D.C.: 5. ELEGY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 3. TO A FRIEND UNSUCCESSFUL IN LOVE by MARK AKENSIDE A CLEAR NIGHT by KARLE WILSON BAKER THE IMPROVISATORE: THE INDUCTION TO THE FIRST FYTTE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |