Classic Poem

Whither , sweet days?
Whither, O Summer?
Whither, O waning moon?
And thou, dear life, belovid one,
Whither art thou gone?
Not to oblivion!
No wingid comer,
Wending his skyey ways,
And flown, how soon!
Hath vanished utterly,
Something of Mother Earth,
Something of memory,
Causeth new birth.

Ever undying we pass;
And what man is,
So shall he live though faded with the grass:
If his aim he miss,
And pass unknown — half seen —
Through time's dark screen,
Whatever there may be
Of wingid life in his endeavor,
This shall be his;
So dowered shall he rise,
Thus painted on the forehead of the skies.