Classic Poem

We sigh because you passed away so young,
Forsaking us, who wander still below,
When life was like a lute with strings unstrung,
A-thrill with music Earth may never know.

But we, not you, deserve the piteous plaint,
The sob, the sigh, the wringing of the hands,
Soul freed at last from every mortal taint,
Among the lilies of enchanted lands!

For us, the slowly creeping steps of age,
For you, the halcyon heart forever young;
For us, the garment soiled, the blotted page,
For you, the glory of the songs unsung.

For us, the sad September's withered sheaves,
For you, the peach-blooms of an April day;
For us, the numb November's hectic leaves,
For you, the verdure of the morns of May.

Best is that death when Life is in its Spring,
When morning skies are gowned in blue and gold,
Before one bird has ever ceased to sing,
And not one forest leaf has yet grown old.

Ah, kindly Fate, forever thus to be,
When Love, the wild gazelle, treads not amiss,
When pearly-footed Youth forbears to flee,
And dimpled Joy defers his farewell kiss!

For you, assassin Autumn never comes
To stab white-bosomed Summer to the heart,
No winds of Winter beat their muffled drums
To bid the brilliant tropic birds depart.

You shall not see Hope's shattered roses strewn,
Nor golden locks flecked into frosty gray,
Nor learn the disillusions of the noon,
Nor see at last Affection's dull decay.

For you no fairy story came untrue,
No Gospel seemed unworthy of belief;
The peasant still will be king to you,
And every wisp of tares a golden sheaf.

Rest, calm and peaceful; you have naught to fear,
Who drove all hate and malice from your side,
Nor gave one being cause to shed a tear,
Until that day, dear boy, on which you died.