Classic Poem

Alas! the pow'rs of life decay;
My hairs are fall'n, or chang'd to grey;
The smiling bloom and youthful grace
Is banish'd from my faded face.
Thus man beholds with weeping eyes
Himself half dead before he dies.
For this, and for the grave I fear,
And pour the never-ceasing tear.
A dreadful prospect strikes my eye;
I soon must sicken, soon must die;
For this the mournful groan I shed,
I dread—alas! the hour I dread!
What eye can stedfastly survey
Death and its dark tremendous way?
For soon as Fate has clos'd our eyes
Man dies—for ever, ever dies!
All pale, all senseless, in the urn;
Never, ah! never to return!