Classic Poem

Lips you were not anhungered for,
And those that won your praises,
A century hence will blossom out
In careless purple daisies.

Eyes that smiled lightly into yours,
And eyes that wept for you—
Ah, soon, not Love himself might know
The brown eyes from the blue.

For even he will come to dust,
And even longing passes,
That crumbling flesh may feed the growth
Of the hungry-rooted grasses.