Classic Poem

It is written on the rose
In its glory's full array—
Read what those buds disclose—
“Passing away.”

It is written on the skies
Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset's dyes—
“Passing away.”

It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play,
And on brighter things than these—
“Passing away.”

It is written on the brow
Where the spirit's ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now—
“Passing away.”

It is written on the heart—
Alas! that there Decay
Should claim from Love a part—
“Passing away.”

Friends, friends!—oh! shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?

Shall we know each other's eyes,
And the thoughts that in them lay,
When we mingled sympathies—
“Passing away?”

Oh! if this may be so,
Speed, speed, thou closing day!
How blest, from earth's vain show