Classic Poem

Be not too quick to carve our rhyme
And hearts, upon the tree of Time;
Lest one swift year prove, in its run,
They were but lines, and poorly done.
That longest lives, which longest grows
In stillness, and by sure degrees:
So rest you, Sweet;
That, going hence with calmer feet,
We may be friends, when friends are foes,
And old days merely histories.