Classic Poem

In old processions carved on Grecian urns
The year is typified in forms of grace
Bound by rose-garlands—flying fauns that race
Beneath the load of wine-skins—flame that burns
In upheld torches; thus, the spiral turns
Around the swelling contour of the vase,
Seeming, though dead, to move from place to place,
Through curled acanthus leaves and bending ferns.
Look back on thy procession—and beware,
If here and there a grinning satyr loom
In last year's roses; on this vase of mine
The only flower of all the garlands fair,
That round my heart made circles of sweet bloom,
Is one white lilac from our Lady's shrine.