Classic Poem

Ah ye mighty caves of the sea, there pushed onward,
In windful waves, of volumes flow
Through rhines. There Bacchus, Venus in lust cherished
Its swell of perfect ease, repeated awe ne'er quenched.
O that inner self, sensation, doth chide variably;
And lo! tell its tale that soothed the heart.
Should but thy plant blend such thought and mind, see,
Tame thy brief gaiety, immortal tears,
And youth to thee return its innocent cheers.
But hence no finite melancholy can calm our fears
That emblem makes, hath thrown us far beyond!
Profane can but be makers of peace e'er chosen;
And conceit, live lowly, for the great past shall sieve the soul;
Thence crowned wreaths shall dimly forsake God's throne.