The caves of death, and the dim arches frown'd. I call unkind That strives to disenchant my cheated mind. But yield to Grecian groups the shining space. While in the warm enamel Nature lives. Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep, And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.
To me appear, while with uplifted arm Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike. I journey'd blithe. In marks obscure, of his immortal peers. Thomas Warton Poets' Corner .