Classic Poem

There's a beauty in the spring-time
With its fresh grass and its flowers,
With the song-birds in the branches
And the children's happy hours.

But there's no less of beauty
When the leaves turn gold and brown
In the short'ning days of autumn,
When far south the birds have flown.

If the rough hand of the tempest
Tear away the fresh young leaves,
Over youthful vigor wasted,
Who can wonder if one grieves?

But when off the autumn branches
Drop the brown leaves one by one,
Seems it then as fair and fitting
As the setting of the sun.

Here the old man by the fireside
Backward looks through tender tears:
And he says, “With wife and children
Trod I long and happy years.”

And he sitteth by the window
Looking o'er the city ways,
Whispers he, “Success and honor
Have been mine in gone by days.

“I have seen the world's fair beauty;
I have tasted all its sweet;
Now, when past my two and three score,
Life is finished and complete.

“And the face of her who loved me
Beckons to me far away;
I have wrought the work God gave me,
Wherefore should I longer stay?”

Who then, friends, would wish to keep him?
Sound no sad, funereal knell:
Of his life say, It was blessed!
Of his death say, It is well!