Classic Poem

Thee , who untrodden cliff and mournful plain
Shadest, thought-wrinkled Oak, I love not now,
Since thou hast decked the forehead of insane
Destroyers of cities with thy gracious bough.

Nor do I yearn for thee, proud Laurel, for thou
Art false and insolent: whether thy vain
Green leaves mock dismal winter or the brow
Of Rome's bald Cæsars, thee do I disdain.

I love thee, Vine, who 'mid thy brown stones seen
Dost laugh in leafy splendour, and the cup
Prepare of wise forgetfulness of life:

Yet dearer still the Pine: may he between
Four boards—a polished coffin—at last shut up
All my heart's dark despair and fruitless strife.