Classic Poem

We do not say, when on the term we fix
Of thirty years, for death's dire revelation,
When we contend that it doth never mix
With all our thoughts till on the middle station
Of life we gain prospective elevation
More distant objects to descry than those
Familiar ones, which moulded young sensation,
That many chances may not interpose,
That mood to antedate which from death's knowledge flows.