Classic Poem

Ne'er ask where knaves are mining,
While the nectar plants are twining:
To pull up the vine
They never incline,
With all their deep designing.

O ne'er for the dead sit weeping,
Their graves the dews are steeping:
And founts of mirth
Spring up from the earth,
Where they are at peace and sleeping.

Away with studious learning,
When heaven's bright lamps are burning:
In the glorious art
That gladdens the heart,
We cannot be more discerning.

Forget the blood that gushes
Where the fiery war-horse rushes:
The blood that glows,
As it brightly flows,
Is making us chant like thrushes.

When burdened troops, advancing,
In cumbrous mail are glancing,
With garlands crowned
We reel around,
While the earth and sky are dancing.