Classic Poem

Sleep , — sleep, my Lyre!
Untouch'd, — unsought, — unstrung!
No one now will e'er inquire
If poet to thee ever sung;
Nor if his spirit clung
To thy witching wire! —
Bid thy soul of music sleep,
As winds lie on the charmed deep,
When the mistress Moon doth chide
The tempest, or the murmuring tide!
Oblivion is a happy lot!
'Tis well to be a thing forgot!
'Tis well that neither Love, nor Woe,
Nor sad sweet thoughts of " long ago,"
Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire!
Therefore, therefore, — sleep my Lyre!