Classic Poem

WHAT though our life,
With all its strife,
Is but a fading flower;
The early dew,
The rosy hue
Of the transient morning hour;

A meteor light,
In a stormy night;
A little vapor flying fast,
O'er hills and woods,
And vales and floods,
Scattered by the rising blast:

Yet to the rose,
Which lowliest grows,
A sweet perfume is given;
And dews arise,
To deck the skies;
And the meteor's lost in heaven.