Classic Poem

Twice has the Winter sallied from his lair,
In seeming triumph, and as quick retired
Into the north again. So things desired,
And loved, still linger in St. Martin's care.
The flowers have vanished, and the woods are bare;
But, all around, stray forms, by Autumn fired,
Still glow like flowers, and many a thought inspired
By Summer, yet is fit for later wear.
Fit and unfit—since naught consists with Time!
For, 'twixt this being and what is to be—
Brief space where even Pleasure holds his breath—
All's incomplete. Life's but a faulty rhyme,
Conned half-contentedly o'er land and sea,
Till comes the infinite Creator—Death!