Classic Poem

Ye are young, ye are young,
— I am old, I am old;
And the song has been sung
— And the story been told.

Your locks are as brown
— As the mavis in May,
Your hearts are as warm
— As the sunshine to-day,
But mine white and cold
— As the snow on the brae.

And Love, like a flower,
— Is growing for you,
Hands clasping, lips meeting,
— Hearts beating so true;
While Fame like a star
In the midnight afar
— Is flashing for you.

For you the To-come,
— But for me the Gone-by,
You are panting to live,
— I am waiting to die;
The meadow is empty,
— No flower groweth high,
And naught but a socket
— The face of the sky.

Yea, howso we dream,
— Or how bravely we do;
The end is the same,
— Be we traitor or true:
And after the bloom
— And the passion is past,
— Death cometh at last.