Classic Poem

Heaps upon heaps — hillocks of yellow gold,
Jewels, and hanging silks, and piled-up plate,
And marble groups in beauty's choicest mould,
And viands rare, and odours delicate,
And art and nature, in divinest works,
Swell the full pomp of my triumphant state
With all that makes a mortal glad and great;
— Ah no, not glad; within my secret heart
The dreadful knowledge like a death-worm lurks,
That all this dream of life must soon depart;
And the hot curse of talents misapplied
Blisters my conscience with its burning smart,
So that I long to fling my wealth aside:
For my poor soul, when its rich mate hath died,
Must lie with Dives, spoiled of all its pride.