Classic Poem

Go, perjured man, and if thou e'er return
To see the small remainders in mine urn,
When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust,
And ask, "Where's now the colour, form, and trust
Of woman's beauty?', and with hand more rude
Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed,
Know, I have prayed to Fury that some wind
May blow my ashes up and strike thee blind.