Classic Poem

Abbott proceeded soberly, with rhyme.
He heard the lone birds' cries, and his own tongue
Made melancholy more than the birds had sung.
The man could talk in Latin, music, mime,
Or sonneteer with Petrarch in his prime,
He had a prince's powers, but what he willed
Was to go down to dust with the unfulfilled
Rather than stint himself with space and time.

He was a specter gibbering under trees
Which preened their yellow feathers, while he thought,
“Flutter, then, flutter, for you shall fly distraught!”
He waved his black sleeves like an evil prophet,
Death in his every verse or not far off it;
Far down he hung his own head, mortal as these.