Classic Poem

Sweet flower, so young, so fresh, so fair,
Bright pleasure sparkling in thine eye;
Alas! e'en thee, time will not spare;
For thou must die.

That heart, with youthful hope so gay,
That scarcely ever breathed a sigh,
Must weep o'er pleasures fled away;
For all must die.

But, though the rosy cheek may fade,
The virtuous wish, the purpose high,
The bloom with which thy soul's arrayed,
Shall never die.