Classic Poem

O Death that sparest not the tiniest flower,
The smallest sea-weed in the whole wide sea,
Wilt thou spare me,—
Wilt thou not give me my victorious hour?

Thou takest to thyself all summer bloom;
Along the violet-scented vales thy hand
Sweeps, and behold the land
Is as a tomb!

No timid prayers, no blossom-pleas, delay
Thine hosts upon their way:
Thou steal'st the rose,—
Then at thy touch September's glory goes.

Dead golden Junes are glad within thy halls,
And thy voice calls
In the end all weary singers unto thee:
Forget not me.

Thou showedst Keats within thy starlit bowers
Fairer than earthly flowers,
And her my mother thou didst gently take,—
Me thou wilt not forsake?

When thou dost light within thy sombre sky
Lamps lovelier far than ours that wane and die,
For me reserve thou one;
Then lead thou back the mother to the son.