At Lethe wharf, what fleets of rhymes,
And books and tomes of bygone times,
Forgotten crafts of many climes,
At Lethe wharf.

A thousand Poets dreamed of bliss,
A thousand Poets felt the kiss,
That Fame would press upon the brow,
But where the silent squadron now?

Close to a dismal sunken pier,
Blown by the winds of fate and fear,
They ride the tide from year to year,
At Lethe wharf.