Classic Poem

Your history, oh, transient flowers of earth!
Is beautiful and brief;
Oft whilst your buds are in their early birth
Pale death assails the leaf.

Even so has passed away my joyous dream;
There is nought remaining now
But the shaded light that its golden gleam
Has left upon my brow.

And the sore pain that, like a wearied steed,
Would fain lie down to sleep,
Whilst memory maddens it anew to speed,
Planting her rowels deep.

Speed on, mad pain, and beat thou down the heart—
The brow can still be calm;
Though memory often acts a cruel part,
She gives me soothing balm.

For all that she to my soul recalls
Of those dear bygone hours
Is pure as the taintless dew that falls
Upon the silent flowers.

It is not conscience gives the aching wound
That crimsons thus my vest;
I'd rather treading on the thorns be found,
Than plant them in my breast.

O'er them I followed duty's cheerless face
With feet that sorely bled,
Whilst love was beckoning with a winning grace,
To where her flowers were spread.

'Tis hard the gift that gold could not have bought
Was lavished in vain,
'Tis bliss to know my soul without a blot,
My hand without a stain.