Classic Poem

Don Quixote died a sane man; at his bed
The curate and the barber marvelling stood,
Admiring his new wisdom as he said
Clear words, abjuring in his dying mood
All of the far adventurings, cursing all
The old enchantments, casting out all fays
Of mad romances that had sounded call
So clarion-like to his knight-errant days.
Thus drew the high strange tragedy to its close;
Thus the great dupe and dreamer ebbed, was gone.
Madmen end ill, as everybody knows;
The barber and the curate, they lived on.
Poor knight! God viewed thee with a jealous eye
Since mad and great He would not let thee die.