HERE sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade; Here mute in death the Teian swan is laid. Jold, cold the heart, which lived but to respire All the voluptuous frenzy of desire! And yet, O Bard! thou art not mute in death Still, still we catch thy lyre's delicious breath And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom, Green as the ivy round the mouldering tomb! Nor yet has death obscured thy fire of love, Still, still it lights thee through th' Elysian grove; And dreams are thine, that bless th' elect alone, And Venus calls thee even in death her own! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CLEAR AND COLDER; BOSTON COMMON by ROBERT FROST THE RAINY SEASON by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PENNIWIT, THE ARTIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OCTAVES: 15 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |