Classic Poem

'Till these things be, the sense of permanence
Dwells with our being, and though we, if asked
If we immortal were, with eloquence
Might prove our own mortality; yet masked—
So long as in the morn-beam we have basked
Of earlier life,—so much is death's grim face,
That, o'erinformed with happiness, o'ertasked
With taste of bliss, it yields a pungent grace,
A savour of sweet fear his antic feats to trace.