Classic Poem

The day that brightens half the earth
Is night to half. Ah, sweet,
One's mourning is another's mirth,—
You wear your bright years like a crown,
While mine, dead garlands, tangle down
In chains about my feet.

The breeze which wakes the folded flower
Sweeps dead leaves from the tree;
So partial Time, as hour by hour
He tells the rapid years,—eheu!—
Brings bloom and beauty still to you,
But leaves his blight with me.

The sun which calls the violet up
Out of the moistened mould
Withers the wind-flower's fragile cup,—
For even Nature has her pets,
And favoring the new, forgets
To love and spare the old.

The shower that makes the bud a rose
Beats off the lilac bloom;
I am a lilac; so life goes;
A lilac that has outlived May;
You are a blush-rose: well-a-day!
I pass, and give you room!