Classic Poem

Did I not warn you: ‘All too fast
Those raven locks will turn to gray.
We're growing old. Youth soon is past,
And you will rue this day.’

Now they are here, the shrivelled arms,
The snow-white hair, the wrinkled face;
Your lips have spent their ancient charms,
Your body lost its grace.

To-day do any lovers come
With eager prayer and flattering cry?
You stand alone, a roadside tomb,
And careless we pass by.