Classic Poem

Time, like an aged gardener,
Still tends the garden of the year,
And, when the summer sweets are lost,
He weaves the scentless flowers of frost.

When, too, the forest boughs have shed
Their generation of the dead,
Against the stars the sacred trees
Spread out their naked traceries.

And in the night an amorous moon
Sings to the sea a tender tune,
And all the star-encrusted sky
Shivers with silent ecstacy.

For Beauty thus not only glows
Within the wine-cup of the rose,
But like a hermit clad may be
In garment of austerity