Classic Poem

Then must I lose my all of joy to thee,
Thou plunderer, Time, and thief of my delight,
And in my cup of sadness shall there be
No lingering lees of my felicity?

True, I have been of late no little while
A stranger to the lute-string and the cup;
Sweet looks, and tremulous eyes, and subtle smile
Have tempted not, nor crafty fingers' guile.

And now behold, my head is waxen grey,
Yet not with plenitude of years; and lo,
My limbs are lean, my flesh consumed away,
Yet not with waste and ravage of decay,

But because I have sinned, and mocked the wise,
And fouled the fountain of my hopes. Alas,
My spring of youth is muddied and there rise
No waters but the salt tears of these eyes.

But I will chide my sorrow, I will speak
Thus to my weeping, saying: " Hence, my tears!
And, O sad heart, strew not upon my cheek
These symbols of the coward and the weak. "

For if the shaft of Destiny hath quit
The bow of Fate, whose hand shall be so skilled
To pluck the flying arrow back? Whose wit
Shall by a hair's breadth change the course of it?

Not ours, not ours, who spend our little time
Tracing a broken couplet on the sand,
Till, wearied of the pleasant pantomime,
Death, the great poet, adds the lacking rhyme.