Classic Poem

We think that all, save that which we behold,
Unreal is:—our ancestors, when they
To us are mentioned, as a tale that's told,
Pass through our memories.—With a proud survey,
We think the point in which we live alway
Will be the actual present,—Time doth tell
A different lésson; mouldering into clay
Friend after friend we see, and every knell
Some past illusion scares, some future hope doth quell.