Classic Poem

The flowers of Spring have come and gone;
Bright were the blossoms, brief their stay;
They shone, and they were shone upon,
They flourished, faded, passed away.
So hidden from our sorrowing eyes,
Our young, sweet, spring-bloom buried lies;
One blast of earth swept o'er the flower,
It died, the blossom of an hour.

The Summer flowers are freshly blowing
Beneath glad July's genial morn;
Like smiles the face of earth bestrowing,
For fragrance and for beauty born;
My summer-flower has passed away,
'Tis now a blank, where all was gay;
A blank, where at each evening's close,
I hoped to watch my budding rose.

Soon Autumn, with overflowing measure,
Will hang upon each bending tree
The clusters of its golden treasure,
The life of earth's vast family.
Alas, in one disastrous hour,
From my green vine has fallen the flower;
A blighted hue its branches wear,
My autumn tree looks cold and bare.

And Winter, with its blast wide-roaming,
In cloud and darkness shall come forth;
Beneath its grave of snow entombing
The various verdure of the earth.
But my sweet blossom, safely laid,
Beneath you cloister's solemn shade,
In gentle undisturbed repose,
Shall sleep in winter's grave of snows.