Classic Poem

Yes: all will pass.—The cities where we trod
When youth was with us like a laughing god,
Guarding our joyous track,—
These all will pass, and leave no trace behind.
The days when round our brows bright flowers were twined
Pass,—and not one comes back.

The old loves pass. With soft eyes full of tears
They fill the autumnal gardens of the years
Where the grey daisies grow;
And their breath makes the gardens sweet as those
Wherein their cheeks were once red like the rose,
That now are like the snow.

We see them pass. They stretch out pallid hands
Towards ours from lanes and fields of many lands
And far-off streets and ways.
But when we kiss their lips, their touch is cold,
And damp and clammy are the hands we hold,
And dull the eyes they raise.

They all are dead. Cold Death lays hand on each.—
The bride within her chamber he can reach,
And smite the glad bridegroom.
He lusts for lips that man has never kissed:
His fingers grip the dainty blue-veined wrist:
He storms the bridal room.

He climbs upon the fragrant bridal bed
And lo! the bright lips hardly kissed are dead
And death the ravisher
Hath carried off the blossom as it lay
To regions where the very sun is grey
And chill the summer air.

The cities that we loved shall perish too:
The skies of Paris shall no more be blue;
They shall be dark and dread;—
Venice shall die: and all the seas that filled
Her streets and at the touch of love-oars thrilled
Shall wash around the dead.