Classic Poem

The snows are fled upon their watery wings,
Greenness again returns,
And now no more the bounty of the springs
O'erflows their frugal urns:
Now might the unclad Graces dance their rings,
So warm the welkin burns!

Yet take the thought from the swift-changing year
(For simple things make wise),
Two months—and Spring was wreathing violets here,
Two more—and Summer dies.
Then will brown Autumn change her golden cheer
At Winter's freezing eyes.

But rapid suns repair the year's decay,
Spring-tide will come again,
We, when to earth our crumbling bones we lay,
Ev'n lose the mould of men.
Life has but one short lease of mortal clay,
Why not enjoy it then?

Live not so thoughtless as the miser bee,
Nor starve amid a store!
When Death shall lead thee to Destruction's sea
And push thee from the shore,
Of all thy worldly goods, but one to thee
Shall cleave—a shroud—no more!