Classic Poem

I hear great master in your verse sonore,
That magic conch-shell through whose lips of rose
Now melting melody now war-note flows,
The sea-sibilants hiss, her tigers roar.
I see a sea-god rising as of yore,
His shoulders blushing from fierce Ocean's blows
Whilst sharp-kissing waves reluctantly unclose,
Release a lover whom most they adore.
So impov'rish'd is this age pleth'ric wi'pelf.
So petty, sordid, money-grub, and mean,
So centr'd, focuss'd, coil'd round and up in self,
So towards the cash-box do all efforts lean,
Ideality's last refuge is the shelf,
The library a refuge stands serene.