Classic Poem

My work is done, a monument sublime,
A thing outliving brass;
One that the pyramids cannot surpass,
Untouched by the corroding rains of Time.

The flight of ages, the parade of years,
Will gently pass me by;
For, buried though I be, I cannot die—
I shall escape the death-bed's final fears.

Fresh with each generation's lavish praise
My work and I shall grow,
Until at last the world of men will know
The living magic of these deathless lays.

Until at last they recognize in me
One of the first to give
Soul to the lyric, stuff to make it live …
So come and crown me, O Melpomene.