Classic Poem

The waters of the pleasant flows
Murmur old forgotten tales.

Here was a jungle before the populace.
So I have heard the people say.

There was a city of décor, fashion.
Time, alas, has left no sign.

I am the heart from the School of Sorrow
Whom for centuries bliss will mourn.

Imagination has often sighted
What Reason calls the Boundless.

Often, sitting deep in thought
I set up delightful fancies.

Words change their meanings
In the crowded pangs of creation.

O the bleak expanse of Chance,
Can there be a Second to my dreams?

Under the black drapes of the eve
Who is mourned by the pouring brooks?

Wherefrom do the beams descend?
To where do steps of stars lead?

A gale blows from the mountains.
Autumn leaves swirl away.

Beneath the bustle of the new age
Old echoes are buried.