Classic Poem

In leafless woods, when the first sap of Spring
Tingles within the branches, bare and drear,
The Beech still holds its foliage, pale and sere,—
The myriad leaves that all-defiant cling;
Days warmer grow; arrive the song and wing;
Then on the Beech th' exultant buds appear,
Forcing the old leaves off,—their fate is clear;
And life-scarred hearts shrink from this hinted thing.

The fierce impulsion of the bud, insooth,
Dashes our dream of perpetuity;
We dreamt we were immutable, but now
We feel the new leaves push us from the bough:
Proud in defeat, we flash these words at Youth:
“Lo! we salute you, we, about to die!”