A book of women's verse - Unknown

And nothing, nothing of them doth remain.

To the thrice-perished dead.

Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?

Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died,

And all the train that loved the stream-bright side

Of the poetic mount with him are gone

Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron,

In unexplorèd realms of night to hide.