Classic Poem

How like the morning flower ye are!
Which lifts its diamond head,
Exulting in the mead:
But the rude wind shall steal its gem,
Shall break its tender stem,
And leave it dead.

Frail pledges of the contrite heart,
Wherefore so soon decay?
O yet prolong your stay!
Until my soul shall boldly rise,
And claim its native skies,
Haste not away.