Classic Poem

Get sons for death, build houses for decay!
All, all, ye wend annihilation's way.
For whom build we, who must ourselves return
Into our native element of clay?
O Death, nor violence nor flattery thou
Dost use; but when thou comest, escape none may.
Methinks, thou art ready to surprise mine age,
As age surprised and made my youth its prey.
What ails me, World, that every place perforce
I lodge me in, it galleth me to stay?
And O Time, how do I behold thee run
To spoil me? Thine own gift thou takest away!
O Time! inconstant, mutable art thou,
And o'er the realm of ruin is thy sway.
What ails me that no glad result it brings
Whene'er, O World, to milk thee I essay?
And when I court thee, why dost thou raise up
On all sides only trouble and dismay?
Men seek thee every wise, but thou art like
A dream; the shadow of a cloud; the day
Which hath but now departed, nevermore
To dawn again: a glittering vapor gay.
This people thou hast paid in full: their feet
Are on the stirrup—let them not delay!
But those that do good works and labor well
Hereafter shall receive the promised pay.