Classic Poem

It is so late! Down all our days are set
November and the snows;
Yet now, when we are ready to forget,
For both has blown a rose.

Right well we know nor you nor I can make
A blaze of one lean spark;
And it were all in vain for us to take
This candle to the dark.

Now what, in truth, the fitting word to say,
And what the proper fate,
For growing red on a November day,
For being a rose so late?

Oh, must we pluck it, sweet though come to dust,
A moment hold it fast?
Or leave it to the gathering of the gust? —
A rose, but at the last!