Classic Poem

In early youth how far that City seems!—
When our friends die, they seem to pass away
Into some land where all the airs are grey,—
Some viewless region too remote for dreams
Even,—where never sun of daylight gleams:—
Our own steps loiter onward day by day;
O'er many a dark-blue lake and sunny bay
We sail; we kiss white hands on moonlit streams.

We gather flowers: the City of the dead
Is still remote. “Which is the fairest thing,”
We say—“a red mouth, or this rose of red?”
Along the May-bright lanes we laugh and sing.
We turn a sudden corner:—Lo! the dread
City before us,—in the sunsetting.