Classic Poem

Those sew pale Autumn flowers,
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,
Than all the Summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why? They are the last —
The last! — the last! — the last!
O, by that little word
How many thoughts are stirred
That sister of the past!

Pale flowers! pale, perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments
That flit, like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings; —

Last hours with parting dear ones,
(That time the fastest spends,)
Last tears, in silence shed,
Last words, half-uttered,
Last looks of dying friends

Who but would fain compress
A life into a day?
The last day spent with one
Who, ere the morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye?

O, precious, precious moments!
Pale flowers! ye're types of those, —
The saddest, sweetest, dearest, —
Because, like those, the nearest
Is an eternal close.

Pale flowers! pale, perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath;
I leave the Summer rose,
For younger, blither brows:
Tell me of change and death!