Classic Poem

The depth of the sea's surface, wrinkled motion,
Hath its horizon o'er its tarnished width.
Between heaven and earth these causes meet,
Where its phenomenon dries atmosphere damp
And sweeps the dew upon our golden shores,
Suspires wholesome wreathes in mists of silver,
Thus blends the crystal air through hoverment.
But man's verbal chide hath not power lore!—
And 'pon the seat of thought doth wonder its heart,
Where endurance, that can wholly save such treat
And quench this streaming strain, through veins doth quiver.
O my plaintive affections, thou hast foresworn
As in legend, myths of garden mint of flowers!
Ah, quite free, thy gift hath busied rest: Slumber nigh dreamy towers.