Classic Poem

Near, and more near, without sight or sound,
The suns and the seasons shape it;
And the day comes round, the day comes round,
And none of us can escape it.

We have baffled the thoughts, we have held them at bay;
We have hidden their rags and tatters;
We have turned our faces the other way;
We have talked of other matters.

But we could not stay the leaves on the tree
From yellowing and falling;
We could not wither the buds on the lea,
Nor hush the cuckoo's calling.

We cannot banish the bird that cried
As the well-beloved departed,
Nor the flowers that bloomed when the dear one died,
And we sat broken hearted.

Year upon year, without sight or sound,
The moons and the midnights shape it —
And the day comes round — the day comes round —
Would God we could escape it!