Classic Poem

Like mine, the veins of these that slumber
Leapt once with dancing fires divine;
The blood of all this noteless number
Ran red like mine.

How still, with every pulse in station,
Frost in the founts that used to leap,
The put to death, the perished nation,
How sound they sleep!

These too, these veins which life convulses,
Wait but a while, shall cease to bound;
I with the ice in all my pulses
Shall sleep as sound.