Classic Poem

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy
 Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
 And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
 Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
 Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,
 While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,
 And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:
And the harp of my country—neglected it slept—
 In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;
From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept
 Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!—Life's summer is past,
 And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
 Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song
 No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
 And a seat by the fire tête-à-tête with a friend.