Classic Poem

Behold I have litten a fire and I am warmed thereby,
The splendid thing delights me, seeming to be alive,
With ruddy countenance and husky tongue
That lisps insatiable greed.

I can smell the hot thick breath of the molasses giant-treed,
First fruits of the damsel earth when she enter'd the Sun's harem,
When first she cast her virgin veil aside
of torrent rains and thunder cloud.

It is the heart, the heart, of the Earth, the Sultan's bride,
That burns so bright so hot, and the whisper is her sigh,
And all things burning passion ever vow'd
Mount upwards as from Dido's pyre.

O this is the poem of things, a song immortally sung
By the world itself for the stars, when they glow'd and were glad and young,
Which time, once having written in his book,
Turn'd down the pages one by one.

And I will make mention of those we heed not who delve the seam,
My Miner, the bondman of death, in pledge for our lumps of coal,
The Genie prison'd in the jagged pit,
The Worm that tunnels in Time's leaves.

In him the passions of the Earth still this way and that are flung,
In the last most beautiful lamp that ever was torn from it,
And still the white flame struggles to survive
On oil that seeps in scanty dole.

EARTH! we have foul'd your lamp and the flame is sootish and dun,
And the glaze is rubb'd and grime occludes the delicate frieze.
And hark — the black ash tinkles, which forsook
The flagrant purity of fire.