Classic Poem

Passy.

Paris, adieu! I issue from thy walls;
A nook to rest in is at Passy mine:
Thy son escapes thy tax on funerals,
And duty free can sip his low-priced wine
Here — in oblivion to be wrapped ere long —
Exempt from storms, may age upon me creep;
Whilst lulled by dying echoes of my song,
Amidst the foliage, like a bird, I sleep!