Classic Poem

There is in thee a chill taste of the tomb,
A strange and perfumed warning of decay,
Thou warmest not, and yet thou canst allay,
For a brief span, all fantasies of gloom.

Then does the fancy sadder garb assume,
One wearies of the freshness of the May,
The dead seem nearer and poison the fair day,
On light and feathery clouds there hangs a doom.

I see when thou art near the fresh-dug graves
Of wan consumptives by the North fog spread,
Beside some mournful beach where dull waves curl;
Or sadder still, when hope no longer saves,
I see some self-slain bankrupt, lying dead
Within the boudoir of a Cora Pearl!