Classic Poem

Woven of fire
And light, these flowers be emblems of the soul,
Whose wing plies ceaselessly to win its goal,
Till time expire.

Beauty at dawn
Was theirs, drunk with rich odors, thieves of hues
Stolen from Iris, reeling with draughts of dews;
At eve, how wan.

Frail flowers! poor heart!
Dew, beauty, fragrance linger till the noon,
At eve, conspire to flee your presence soon,
At night, depart.

So reads the sign —
May thy day linger long whose morn has spoken
Hope to the heart, and peace as yet unbroken, —
Longer than mine.