Classic Poem

How many times the flow'rs have blown
And died again, from spring to fall,
Since shapes of early friends were shown
As fair as they among them all.

Or since, below the summer light,
On banks by daisyheads bespread,
Or fields by yarrow dappled white,
Their shadows mark'd their comely head.

Or fell at evening on the wall,
Beside the door; or glided cool,
By moonpaled timber-stems, to fall
On glitt'ring dew, or shining pool.

O sun and moon, that love to mark
All earthborn shapes, or quick, or still,
The wayfarer, the gliding bark,
The highbough'd tree, or lofty hill;

In your sweet light, so pale or red,
But sad to me, you seem to miss
The shape of some all-comely head
You copied in our day of bliss.