Classic Poem

As, when a funeral bell hath ceased to toll,
The sound yet lingers ere it dies away;
As he who down a mountain takes his way
Too hastily, can scarce his course control;
As from apparently extinguished coal
An unexpected flame will brightly play;
As oft, upon an almost withered spray,
Bursts forth a blossom, desolate and sole;
Or as the shepherd, thrilled with sweet delight,
Pours forth in artless song his fair one's praise
Which thoughtless echoes far and wide extend;
So fares it now with me who sonnets write;
Though neither thought nor purpose it bewrays,
I write one sonnet more, to make an end.