Classic Poem

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE FOR HIM SOME POETRY .

I CALL on my muse:
She cannot refuse:
But she comes with a tear in her eye.
The wreath on her head
Is withered and dead,
And her song has turned into a sigh.

She shows me a glass,
In which I see pass
The ghosts of my happier hours.
There fancy still lingers,
With sweet fairy fingers,
To dress them with nothing but flowers.

Then it changes anew:
'T is the future I view;
But my stricken heart faints at the sight.
'T is painted by fear,
All dismal and drear,
And hope has extinguished her light.

Then the present appears,
All bedimmed with my tears,
And fancy, sweet fancy, is gone;
And dark is the day,
And lonely the way,
And the traveller treads heavily on.

Now she raises her eye,
And points to the sky,
And bids me look there for my rest;
And glories untold,
To my vision unfold,
As I gaze on the home of the bless'd.