Classic Poem

Simichidas, thou love-demented loon!
What haste is this, when no man's need doth call?
Surely the gods have witched thee. 'Tis high noon.
No creature else hath any strength at all;
The spotted lizard sleeps upon the wall;
The skiey larks drop earthward for the boon
Of one still hour; the ants forget to crawl.
Naught stirs except the stones beneath thy shoon.
Nay, but I know; not love impels thee thus;
Thy journey's end will bring a baser gain.
Some burgher's feast or vintner's overplus
Of trodden grapes — for these thy feet are fain.
Well, go thy way; be fortunate. But us
This pleasant shade retains and shall retain.