Classic Poem

Ye lovely blossoms of the opening Spring!
That paint the fruit-trees with your blushing hues,
Fann'd by the genial south wind's humid wing,
And foster'd by the evening's grateful dews,
Each morning sun your vernal health renews,
Each morning sun perceives my health decline;
Your's 'tis to bloom, and round you joy diffuse,
To droop, to wither, and to die is mine.
For Spring, nor genial sun, nor freshning gale,
With youthful strength can sickly age recruit,
And death shall o'er this tottering frame prevail,
Ere Autumn shall mature your embryo fruit.
And when I us'd to view my orchard's pride,
Ah! then its fallen lord a grassy turf shall hide.