Classic Poem

We are the urns of beauty,
In us are the ashes stored
Of tree and grass and flower—
Music, colour and word
Which bloomed in brains that are dust,
We are the transmitters of beauty,
We pass that we may pass on.
The body may perish,
The bones crumble,
But thought will blossom again,
Thought that admits no boundaries
Of time or space,
Thought will blossom again.