Classic Poem

He neither wrote, nor uttered murmur at wonder,
But grew upon his rich, reigning, lofty desire
And hung the earth 'pon each fading fancy,
Pressing nothing that he noble can lyre,
But can afterward use, when beauty
Doth hinder its pregnant, epitomized lore.
He sat as an extricable prisoner, bound
To essence that he sought to emancipate,
Kept pounding an anvil of generation core
And exchanged his soul a thousand ways
At the rate of centuries unfelt round,
As though cloud repeats cloud through days,
Or nocturnal heaven's beaten lights
That mock the day from suspense of heights.