Classic Poem

Such were the thoughts that filled our hero's head,
As night apace on circling moments flew;
No wonder, then, that sleep his pillow fled,
Since such bright visions for the while seem true.
But, oh! they wither faster than they grew!
Hard 't is for man his destined lot to shun,
To leave the road that he must stumble through;
Youth is the rising, age the setting sun—
The evening often closes as the morn begun.