Classic Poem

My wicker jug before me stands,
A quart within its woven bands —
A quart of undiluted themes,
A quart of concentrated dreams
At vagrant Fancy's soft commands.

I ramble now enchanted lands
Of forest glades and purling streams —
The while benignly on me beams
My wicker jug.

Led by Caprice's listless hands,
I reach at last far Lethe's strands,
Where Memory dies and darkness teems —
Save where beside me kindly gleams
My wicker jug.