Classic Poem

Life is a summer's day
When as it were for aye
We sport and play.

Anon the night comes on,
The ploughman's work is done,
And day is gone.

We read in this one page
Both Youth, Manhood, and Age
That hoary Sage.

The morning is our prime,
That laughs to scorn old Time,
And knows no crime.

The noon comes on apace,
And then with swel'tring face
We run our race.

When eve comes stealing o'er
We ponder at our door
On days of yore.

The patient kine, they say,
At dawn do frisk and play,
And well they may.

By noon their sports abate,
For then, as bards relate,
They vegetate.

When eventide hath come,
And grey flies cease their hum,
And now are dumb,

They leave the tender bud,
That's cooling to the blood,
And chew the cud.

Let's make the most of morn,
Ere grey flies wind their horn,
And it is gone.