Classic Poem

Now fare you well, my joy, that would not stay;
Count it as nothing I besought you so.
The place is dim, the needy fire burns low;
Go hand in hand with the unheeding day.
It is mine own heart's fault that must alway
Nest on the edge of all the winds that blow,
Forgetful that there comes a day of snow;
Forgetful that the young year must grow gray.
But joy's so rare that it has taught me thrift;
No moth lays waste my rich remembering;
And I may see, with quiet eyes uplift,
— Some even, when the fire takes heart to sing —
The dusk all white with petalled snow adrift,
Like the dear ghost of young unburied Spring.