Classic Poem

Alas, in London, wyverns never dwell;
I have beheld them in a golden herd,
Mailed like a serpent, feathered like a bird,
Feeding on hawthorn and the faint bluebell,
The which they drink like water, and the smell
Of woodbine is their honey, and the curd
Of the white moonlight broken up and stirred
Serves them for delicate manna where it fell.

Alas, Llewelyn, they will not assault—
Having such heavenly business of their own—
These iron bars, these walls of stupid stone;
Do not upbraid them for their beauty's fault;
For when myself has freed me from this chain
They'll kiss my wounds, and comfort me again.