Classic Poem

Time, in his ceaseless flight, not only strips
The field of flowers, the forest of its leaves,
Youth of its brightness and elastic force,
But ruthlessly despoils th' ideal world.
All that was beauteous, noble, godlike, rich,
And worthy every sacrifice and toil,
Becomes so colourless, so false and small,
So humble that ourselves are humbled too.
And well for us if still the embers keep
One trembling spark, and if the cheated heart
Becomes not all too faint to glow afresh.
Reality is but a quivering spark;
Imagination soars beyond the fact,
Pretence has more existence than the truth.
He who sees truth alone, hath ended life.
Life is a play; and when the hollow show
Begins at length to fade, the curtain falls.