Classic Poem

The present is the funeral of the past
& man the living sepulchre of life
Still in the past he lives — O would it last
In its own dreams of beauty where the strife
Of passion died — yet trouble ever rife
Dwells on its sweetest tones & harsh all sound
That chord that used to sound the name of wife
On life's jarred [music] now emits no sound
& sweetheart melodys youth lost are nowhere to be found.