Classic Poem

The green of hope, the purple of desire,
The yellow gold, the crimson-red of sin,
When shall I see them end, and when begin
The white intense effulgence of the fire
That knows nor shade nor colour? Heap them higher
The coals that feed the furnace; freely pour
The hissing oil, and let the bellows roar,
Then clasp your hands, ye mourners, for the pyre
Is ready, and with shouting and with song,
With lilies and with roses garlanded,
On loving shoulders proudly borne along,
I 'll lay me down upon my bridal-bed,
And then without a tear, without a name,
Pure into purest, vanish into flame.