Dead Poets

Where the poets go to die
  Is where I wish to be,
And where I wish to try
  To grasp the meaning in pain.
Holding up my head too high
  Among these gods of words,
I feel so lost and I cry
  In the hall of light and mirth.
Guide me, spirits by and by,
  To that olden company
That lifted tongues to fly
  To mounts so high away -
Crags at which I do spy,
  But yet have I to climb.
Watch me, I do not lie,
  My wish is to have this prize,
And ascend to the height to die
Where no more my soul need try.

Featured image: ‘Morning in the Mountains,’ by Caspar David Friedrich (c. 1823), in the public domain.

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