Classic Poem

WHEREIN HIS THEME IS ONLY GRIEF AND LAMENTATION

Those eyes, the flame of my melodious Muse,
The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face
Which set me alien to the human race,
Self-exiled from all vain and vulgar use;
Those crisp close locks of golden Syracuse;
The dazzling Eden of that smile whose grace
Opened the gates the fiery sentinels pace —
A pinch of dust no feelings now confuse!
And yet I live — and hate each day I live,
Without the loved familiar beacon tossed
In tempest, a perpetual fugitive!
The blaze of genius dead, the music lost!
This is the end: thou hast no more to give,
O Lyre, but the dark whisperings of a ghost!