Classic Poem

For ever hard to meet, and as hard to part
Each flower spoils in the failing East wind.
Spring's silkworms wind till death their heart's threads:
The wick of the candle turns to ash before its tears dry
Morning mirror's only care, a change at her cloudy temples:
Saying over a poem in the night, does she sense
the chill in the moonbeams?
Not far, from here to Fairy Hill.
Bluebird, be quick now, spy me out the road.