Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE APOSTROPHIZES THE LAUREL AND ITS ATTENDANT WATER

Not Tesin, Po, the Arno, Tiber, nor
Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Ganges, Nile,
Nor Rhone, Garonne, nor streams of any style,
Nor all the trees of all earth's fertile store —
Not one cool drop, not one dram can these pour
To check the flame which eats my heart the while —
Nay, but one brook weeps balm of camomile,
And one dear poet's branch heals me far more.
This single succour do I find, this one:
Wherefore meseems I should so live my life
In arms, which else sweeps to oblivion.
Thus on fresh soil the laurel's growth is rife;
And he who planted it, his high sweet thought
Beneath its shade with Sorga's murmurs wrought.