Classic Poem

Byron, what clash in thee of sea and wind,
Wrecking and squandering all we treasure most!
What riches of ungovernable mind
Washed up along some bleak despairing coast!
Rare liquor doth besiege the furious capes,
The iron steeps are splashed with blood of grapes,
All the perfumed cargo of thy heady wine
Flung to inhabitants of rocks and fogs
To grope for, and get drunk out of their clogs
While fades the chaos-tingeing fiery juice divine. . . .