Classic Poem

The fairest things, alas! are ever fleetest;
How glad, and yet how short, is sunny May:
For just one hour the rose is at its sweetest;
The violet's perfume lasts but for a day.
For some short weeks the waves are at their brightest;
The stars grow pale within the morning air:
One day the chestnut-bloom is at its whitest —
The next day sees it wither and despair.

And so with love. — It has its perfect splendour,
Its summer glory, when the twain hearts meet:
Its perfect hour of June, its moment tender,
Its sudden rapture, and its perfume sweet.
But ah! it follows the departing roses!
It trembles when the thunder smites the sky:
At autumn airs its fragrant blossom closes;
At touch of wintry wind its petals die.

And yet beyond the days of pain and sadness,
Beyond time's seasons full of clouds and grief,
There must be somewhere everlasting gladness, —
A heaven that sees no red-stained autumn leaf. —
The loved souls who have left us travel thither;
Within the gateways of thaTheaven they stand:
Ah, there the roses never pale nor wither!
There is no loveless winter in that land!