Classic Poem

Here in this grave the sacred relics rest
Of far-renowned Anacreon, whom the bright
Celestial Muses with their loveliest

And best gifts graced: his blithe canorous lyre
Responded to his measures of delight,
Which of the Loves and Graces did respire.

He mourneth not because a ghost he strays
In lands of Dis the dim dominion,
Rapt from the sunlight and life's mystic maze.

But he is sad that Bacchic revelries
May joy him not again, and that no one
Of his old friends and loved ones more he sees.

Natheless the strains he loved so well he sings
Though he hath done with things and times terrene;
Still in the underworld his sweet lyre rings.

And though enshrouds his head engulfing gloom
Fame ever keeps his glorious laurels green;
And Love's self weeps beside his silent tomb.