Classic Poem

A poet, crazed by Mammon, hung
His harp upon the willows, and
Forgot the songs which he had sung,
Sweeping that harp with master hand.
Long wailed the Muse with much ado,
The votary which Mammon stole,
Till Mammon pitying her withdrew
The spell that bound the poet's soul.

The poet then with master hand
Took down the old familiar lyre
And sang unto a listening land
His song aflame with heav'nly fire.
Sing on, O poet, while ye may,
As sweetly as in years of old,
For thy sweet songs shall live for aye,
A grander heritance than gold!