Classic Poem

O uplifting relief in thy noble stratum,
O trembling sooth in sacred balms,
Thou hast but felt heart's bitter woes
Of softness in tentacles serene.
Melancholy robe and the holy
Felt degrees have pounded the
Soul to Almighty's bowing
Fear o'er our human sensual
Clay, in miniature, disregarded.
But this wide continuous pain
Must endure, lest we forget
Remaining crowns of thorns that
Withhold from lofty inebrieism;
Therein bear excuse formidable, patient.