Classic Poem

We seldom think of death till thirty years
Have somewhat cooled our blood, and quenched our thirst,
And hunger, for that bliss, which no one fears
To miss, and which when life's gay prospects first
Open upon us, on our gaze doth burst
In shapes so Proteus like. But from that time
This thought with every form is interspersed,
Like note of discord, or imperfect rhyme,
Spoiling harmonious sounds, or poesy's sweet chime.