Classic Poem

Glad youth had come thy sixteenth year to crown,
To soft encircle thy dear cheeks with down
And part the mingled beauties of thy face,
When death too quickly came to snatch your grace.
But thou'll not herd with ghostly, common fools,
Nor, piteous, waft the Stygian pools;
Rather with blithe Adonis shalt thou rove
And play the Ganymede to highest Jove.