Lament, O Muse, and heave a suspiration, Make me an epicedium, a threne, An ode to fit my humid lachrimation, A dirge ultramarine! For heavy I, and supercharged with woe, On reading that the Astor House must go. Thou noble inn where oft I (Crys of "Louder") Repaired to find a frugal bit of lunch; Where grew the city's only perfect chowder And hot Jamaica punch— So deep my woe that thou art to be razed I question it can fittingly be phrazed. Farewell, farewell! If Byron I may borrow— I read of thee in many an Alger tome, Unthinking that, in age and bowed with sorrow, I'd spill to thee a pome; Unknowing that some day I should deplore The announcement that thou wert to be no more. Yet though my trend be super-sentimental, Thine end I truly do not mind a bit; My grief for that is wholly incidental, This is my woe, to wit: The riveting and blasting that I hear— Shades of the Woolworth tower!—another year! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOLDWING MOTH by CARL SANDBURG SOTTO VOCE; TO EDWARD THOMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE SONNET OF HIS LADY IN HEAVEN by JACOPO DA LENTINO DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT: NASCENT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |