Classic Poem

I.

The year is flying, dying, —
Soon its flowers will flee;
Its tender soft red roses,
Its leafy verdant closes, —
Soon autumn will be crying,
" What is left for me? "

II.

The old loves are flying, dying, —
With all their soft-voiced glee;
Their ripples of sweet laughter
And kisses that came after, —
The fruits of love are lying
Low now beneath love's tree!

III.

The days are flying, dying, —
Soon bloom no more will be;
The great green leaves so splendid
With brown tints will be blended,
The desolate wind go sighing
Across waste marsh and lea!

IV.

Our passions flying, dying,
Breathe glory once, then flee;
Their summer hues forsake them, —
The cold winds spurn and break them, —
Their petals low are lying
Beneath love's wind-tossed tree!

V.

No word of hope comes flying
Across wan leagues of sea:
Our weariness increases
Now that June-laughter ceases, —
Our hopes are sighing, dying,
That blossomed fair and free!

VI.

The golden corn is lying
Bright-gold upon the lea:
But all its rich deep splendour
Outblossoms not the tender
Spring-leaves that June saw dying, —
That now dead-brown we see.

VII.

Late loyes come flying, sighing, —
White wings across time's sea;
They are not winged with gladness
That mocks pale autumn's sadness, —
They are late and faint and dying, —
Their lips are nought to me.

VIII.

A sound of song comes flying
Across far straits of sea:
The sound of early singing
When love's white hand was clinging,
Ere yet the flowers learnt dying,
With tender clasp to me.

IX.

My heart goes flying, sighing,
O'er vale and mount and lea;
Seeking for one whose glances
Were once love's flame-tipped lances, —
A form in dreams descrying
Which I shall never see!