Classic Poem

“T HOU art but in life's morning!” Years have sped
Their silent flight, since thus my idle rhyme
Address'd thee in thy being's opening prime;
If, since that hour, some clouds at times have spread
Their shadow o'er thy path, these have not shed
Their wrath upon thee; but, from time to time,
Have led thy spirit sunnier heights to climb,
Communing with the loved, lamented dead.
And still thou art but in the later morn
Of thy existence—hearts of finest mould
And best affections are empower'd to hold
The purer, nobler feelings with them born,
Which will not let them droop, of hope forlorn,
Nor by a few brief years grow dull and cold.