Classic Poem

A MONUMENT of love! more glorious love
Than ever bloom'd beneath the eternal sun,
Than any which the poets harp upon,
Or old Romance hath into being wove.
It stood far distant from the under grove,
Upon a mountain pinnacle, alone;
Large as the giant piles of Babylon,
Silent as if no living thing did move
Within its halls; the whisper echoes slept,
Subdued to silence by the lordly gloom,
For with a timid air the daylight crept,
And hardly broke into the middle room,
Where a dark-veiled woman sat and wept—
'Twas Artemisia by her husband's tomb!

A MONUMENT of love! more glorious love
Than ever bloom'd beneath the eternal sun,
Than any which the poets harp upon,
Or old Romance hath into being wove.
It stood far distant from the under grove,
Upon a mountain pinnacle, alone;
Large as the giant piles of Babylon,
Silent as if no living thing did move
Within its halls; the whisper echoes slept,
Subdued to silence by the lordly gloom,
For with a timid air the daylight crept,
And hardly broke into the middle room,
Where a dark-veiled woman sat and wept—
'Twas Artemisia by her husband's tomb!