Classic Poem

Come, cuddle closer, Breed asthor,
For youth will have its way—
The eyes so bright at Candlemas
Grow sad on Lammas Day.

There's bitter bliss in Lammas love
And sure in time to pass,
And wrinkle-rutted dreams of hope
Grow cold at Hallowmass.

Then cuddle closer, Breed asthor,
Ere time brings cark and care;
We'll catch the fancy born in flame
Ere it goes out in air!