Classic Poem

But, in the common way, we seldom think
Of death, till death not only hath mowed down
Our dearest friends; but till our hopes too shrink,
Torn from us, as hereditary crown
From abdicated King; till fortune frown,
And snap life's tenderest thread, we cast a glance,
Of change unapprehensive, up and down,
And quite absorbed in insubstantial trance,
Think to behold, in life, an unchanged countenance.