Classic Poem

And so, to quote a brief and lyric friend,
— We'll to the woods no more; the laurel boughs
Are cut — ; the garland darkens on our brows;
And this, if ever, is the very end.
Nothing is here to hallow or defend:
The golden folly and the brave carouse
Are fled; the hawk sits on our banquet house;
Under his talon we cannot pretend.

This is the Edict of our Garden: Go!
The sword insists; the lizard in the lute
Needs not our music. . . . But our teeth shall know
Always the incantation of the fruit;
And at our feet the hiss of heels in pairs
Running for ever down a flight of stairs!