Classic Poem

My blood is warm and I would be blithe,
But I hear pale Death whetting his scythe;
He whets his scythe and whirls it round,
Cutting the flowers from the coloured ground.
The beautiful flowers! how fast they fall!
And the fairest and freshest are first of all.

And I am pale, paler than he,
For my mind misdoubts he has cut down thee,
Thou loveliest flower not seen but known,
Planted and nurtured for me alone
On some far bank where one might lie
Touching the blue-bells tenderly.
Thy image groweth and bloweth still
In the deep soul invisible.
But I search the wind that wandereth
Lest it be sweet with thy failing breath,
And vex the bee with questioning,
And hardly suffer the finch to sing,
Lest she pipe on the grievous spot
Where thou hast been, and art not.