Classic Poem

Such subtile filigranity and nobless of construccion
Here fraternise in harmony, that respiracion stops.
While all admit their impotence (though autors most formidable)
To sing in words the excellence of Nature's underprops,
Yet stalactite and stalagmite together with dumb language
Make hymnes to God wich celebrate the strength of water drops.

You, also, are you capable to make precise in idiom
Consideracions magic of ilusions very wide?
Alraedy in the Vestibule of these Grand Caves of Artá
The spirit of the human verb is darked and stupefyed;
So humildy you trespass trough the forest of the colums
And listen to the grandess explicated by the guide.

From darkness into darkness, but at measure, now descending
You remark with what esxactitude he designates each bent;
‘The Saloon of Thousand Banners,’ or ‘The Tumba of Napoleon,’
‘The Grotto of the Rosary,’ ‘The Club,’ ‘The Camping Tent.’
And at ‘Cavern of the Organ’ there are knocking streange formacions
Wich give a nois particular pervoking wonderment.

Too far do not adventure, sir! For, further as you wander,
The every of the stalactites will make you stop and stay.
Grand peril amenaces now, your nostrills aprehending
An odour least delicious of lamentable decay.
It is some poor touristers, in the depth of obscure cristal,
Wich deceased of their emocion on a past excursion day.