POET, whose very dust, here shed, Is as the quick among the dead, Where revels thy carousing soul? What Hebe fills what mighty bowl, Mantling with what immortal drink? * * * * * Nay, great and blissful one! I think That, taught by Time himself to flee The taverns of Eternity, Amid yon constellations thou Drivest all night the heavenly Plough, Wooing with song some sky-nymph fair Who sits in Cassiopeia's Chair, Or half unravels on her knees That tangled net, the Pleiades, Or, at thy over amorous strain Bridling with wrath she needs must feign, Flits to a region pale and gray, Shimmers through nebula away, But wandering back, with starlike tears Yields to the Ploughman of the Spheres. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE by ROBERT BROWNING RUNNING THE BATTERIES by HERMAN MELVILLE EPITAPH INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by ALEXANDER POPE THE WHITE CHARGER by ABUS SALT THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER HUNTING HORNS by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE THE HUSBAND'S PETITION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |