Classic Poem

Thou witherest, and summer ne'er will bring
Again thy glossy leaves, thou dying tree:
And now melodious birds come not to thee,
Although in all the trees around they sing.
And thus, when youth is over,—and no spring
Brings back our bloom and blitheness when they flee,—
The younger world will catch the hope and glee
That pass by us, like playful birds on wing.

And so in waning life, when joys we know
In youth will long have vanished from the breast;
And when the world-forsaken soul must sigh

To leave that world so soon, or be so slow
To gain its place of ever-blissful rest;
How blest is he that may have learnt to die!