Classic Poem

Poet renowned, thy honeyed breath
A grape-stone stopped — the factor of dire death.
May roses shed their rich perfume,
And ivy and laurel flourish round thy tomb.
O let not here thy tendrils twine,
But be thou hence, far hence, flagitious vine,
Whereby to Acheron was sent
The brightest star of mystic revelment.
Lyaeus loves thee not so well,
O vine, since on such wise Anacreon fell!