Classic Poem

What gems' chill glitter yon, thrice dipt
in dusky Styx, or tears unshed
the spheres, in icy exile stript,
congeal in midnight's gaze of lead?

O thou crown'd caitiff, o'er our head
whereon thine agelong wounds have dript
the dark arms of thy passion spread
dwarf the vast vault to a hard crypt.

Round thine eternal hour of woe
the abyss urges, a rigid throe,
whose woeful dark sees nought emerge,

save these, their consolation vain
and frozen on the helpless verge,
lonely, ecstatic fires of pain.