Classic Poem

The green Spring comes with gladness;
Its golden meadows gleam;
But sometimes full of sadness
Those golden meadows seem.
So long ago they glittered
With that same fairy gold:
But now our hearts are weary;
The West Wind's touch seems cold.

We and our hearts have travelled
Through many a grove and glade;
Have marked the shadows lengthen,
Have watched the sunlight fade.
The voices now that summon
Sound weirdly from afar;
The sun we seek and worship
Is evening's first white star.

But still the lilac blossoms
With soul that mocks at gloom,
And tosses snowier plumelets
Above each silent tomb:
If we are old and weary,
Our best songs long since sung,
The soul of Spring is deathless,
The heart of May is young!