Over snow
cleap’d mountains,
Fields filled
with grains,
Streams the
crickets sing
And the
sparrows twitter,
Gales soothed
by the nightingale,
When the
starry night kisses
the orange
sun,
When the love-stricken
moon
lulls the charming
Endymion,
When the
greed-ridden
tempts the
pretty Isabella,
On cliffs
the bereft wail
Of damsel
sans merci,
On abode
aloft
Where Hyperion
fell,
On the eve
of St Agnes,
Where virgins
envision a dream,
Plays he, Pan,
His flute melodies,
With notes
of muses nine,
Hedged with
bounteous nature,
For a
Blood
coughing, pen bearing, Rome dwelling,
Pained,
pensive, poignant, poet,
Whose name
was (never) writ in water.
