Classic Poem

Oh, I am old and hoar! so old that none
Of all my drops holds memory of birth:
My mists no longer rise to robe the Sun,
No longer lend great rivers to the Earth.
Low in my deeps my broken creatures die,--
They die! and their corruption loads my floors;
Countless and cold, my lordly monsters lie
On league-long sands of continental shores.
Where bide you, O white stallions of the waves?
And you torrential surges,--where the crest
You flung on leaping mountains that you drave
Across your father's fields from East to West?
Shine forth, O Moon! unveil thee, pallid queen!
Heal me, as when my passion clomb to thine;
Shed down thy lucent drench, thy light serene,
Oh, lift me back to Life and Love--oh, shine!
My salt hath lost its virtue in men's blood
And o'er their hearts the marish vapour crawls;
Now Death o'erwhelms me with his colder flood,
And, prey to Time, my royal glory falls.