Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. You can also use the up (↑) and down (↓) arrows to move a line one place at a time, or the top (⇑) and bottom (⇓) arrows to move a line directly to the top or bottom. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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Are lost i' th' funeral fire.
Now, to Tibullus next,
Homer, this health to thee!
For now each tree does wear,
Of ashes scarce suffice
Here burnt, whose small return
With endless life are crown'd.
In wine, whose each cup's worth
Catullus! I quaff up
To Ovid; and suppose
That this presents to me.
And when all bodies meet
Behold! Tibullus lies
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
In Lethe to be drown'd;
When pyramids, as men,
Th' Arabian dew besmears
Rich beads of amber here.
The golden pomp is come.
A goblet next I'll drink
Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!
And my retorted hairs.
Now is the time for mirth;
—But stay, I see a text,
O Bacchus! cool thy rays;
Of aromatic wine,
The world had all one nose.
An Indian commonwealth.
To pledge this second health
My uncontrolled brow,
Round, round, the roof does run;
Then this immensive cup
The golden pomp is come;
In sack of such a kind,
Made of her pap and gum,
This flood I drink to thee;
And being ravish'd thus,
Then only numbers sweet
Or frantic I shall eat
Now reigns the Rose, and now
That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind
To that terse muse of thine.
Wild I am now with heat:
They only will aspire,
For with th' flowery earth
Trust to good verses then;
Come, I will drink a tun
Made he the pledge, he'd think
To my Propertius.
To fill a little urn.
Next, Virgil I'll call forth,
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Now is the time for mirth; Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For with th' flowery earth The golden pomp is come.
The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the Rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow, And my retorted hairs.
Homer, this health to thee! In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see, Though thou wert ne'er so blind
Next, Virgil I'll call forth, To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth.
A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid; and suppose Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus! I quaff up To that terse muse of thine.
Wild I am now with heat: O Bacchus! cool thy rays; Or frantic I shall eat Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!
Round, round, the roof does run; And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius.
Now, to Tibullus next, This flood I drink to thee; —But stay, I see a text, That this presents to me.
Behold! Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn.
Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire.
And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd; Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.