Classic Poem

There comes a season when the forest leaves,
Ravaged by the fatal frost, flush hectic-red,
And then decay. So man, as life grows dim —
The heyday past — and frosts of age descend
On his sere locks, sees all his youthful hopes
Grow less and less. Bright fancies of the past
Illusions seem, but even as they fade,
Seem but more splendid that we have them not;
Until at last, but ashes, ashes all!
That life can offer; and we grope and pick
Among the cold, dead cinders of the past,
For one last spark to re-illume the flame
Of hope upon the altar of the heart;
Not finding it, we shiver toward the grave,
Sleep sound on that last bolster stuff'd with husks,
Forgotten by the world which we forgot!

Perhaps some day, in years that are to be,
Some antiquarian searcher of old tombs,
Shall scrape away the venerable moss —
Read half the tablet's record — guess the rest —
And think " my grandsire knew him when a boy, "
And speak of us as of a vanished thing —
Or nothing, of the antique past, less worth
Than the transcription of a mildewed slab.
Well, well! we wither like the autumn leaf;
And like sere foliage on the whirlwind borne,
Before the irresistable breath of Time
Vanish to nothingness, and are seen no more!