Classic Poem

One sad scrutiny from my warm inner self:
This age hath but the pleasures of its own,
And that which rises from my inner tomb
Is but the haste of the starry splendor dome.
O thought, the deep hath fear of thee,
Lest thou dost not vanish too soon,
O bitter messenger of thousand truths!
And still the cast of yearly unnumbered woob
My love did plead at the summer spray.
Ambition swallowed all that is gay,
And the coral bid my frenzied state
To doubt the ill that the world hath made.
Another morning must I wake to see
That lowly pain — O that conquering script — cannot banish me!