Classic Poem

These fell miasmic rings of mist, with ghoulish menace bound,
Like noose-horizons tightening my little world around,
They still the soaring will to wing, to dance, to speed away,
And fling the soul insurgent back into its shell of clay:

Beneath incrusted silences, a seething Etna lies,
The fire of whose furnaces may sleep — but never dies!