Classic Poem

I.

Of joy, of summer days, of sweetness,
Of leaf-perfection, flower-completeness,
There comes an utter end:
All songs, all days of calm or laughter,
Are followed by a blank hereafter
Towards which their footsteps tend.

II.

Of pleasure, happiness, soft weeping,
Of eager action, weary sleeping,
There comes alike the close:
To soft slim flower by roadside hilly,
To great majestic garden lily,
To red majestic rose.

III.

There comes an end of all their glory;
Their petals fade, wax faint and hoary,
Are mixed with autumn hues:
The dying lessening woods are splendid,
Yet the bright tints throughout them blended
Are those that death's lips choose.

IV.

There comes an end to noble summers;
Others flame forth, gay-garbed new-comers
With fire upon their cheeks;
But these too in the end lose gladness,
They mix their flowerlike souls with sadness,
They wither at cold weeks.

V.

So is it with the green spring-hedges
And all the laughing river-edges
Whereby the glad nymphs roam:
So is it with the seas whose brightness
Vies with the sea-born goddess' whiteness,
The waves that guard her home.

VI.

So is it with all lovers' splendour;
One day the love-god's hand is tender, —
The next day where is he?
Is not the next night starless, moonless,
The love-couch cold, the bleak airs tuneless,
Barren the waste wide sea?

VII.

To-day the woman's kiss falls sweetly,
Captive she holds her love completely
And thrills him with her hair:
She is gone, she is flown away to-morrow,
And, for the sound of song, shrill sorrow
Sits wildly wailing there.

VIII.

To-day the bright girl's words are gracious,
She leads the way through wood-glades spacious,
Her white hand leads love on;
She is changed and cold and all untender
Next morn, — and all that woodland splendour,
Lacking her grace, is gone.

IX.

One day soft meadow-sweet abundant
Makes all the still dear woods redundant
With still intense perfume:
The next day all the North wind's madness
Has wrenched away the green woods' gladness,
Scattered the white flowers' bloom.

X.

The blue sea with soft ripples ringeth
To-day, and hardly one cloud wingeth
Above the waves its way;
At night the black storm's evil warning
Scowls in the West, — grim tides next morning
Scour all the sands for prey.

XI.

So too of sorrow itself an ending
Comes some day; towards that goal we tending
Lift up our hearts in praise,
Grateful that change itself not ever
Shall last, — that foiled downcast endeavour
Shall rest in quiet ways.

XII.

There comes an end of sweetest treasure
Joy gathers up, of sorrow's measure, —
Of grief's low weary strain;
Of kisses God himself might covet
From mouth so sweet that God might love it;
Of parting's speechless pain.