Classic Poem

See how the floweret blushes in the morn,—
A thousand colors o'er its bosom play;
But soon these hues, that Nature's robe adorn,
Rent by the winds, are scattered far away.

'Tis thus with beauty, lovely, transient flower,—
How soon, alas! its maiden sweetness flies!
How soon it fades in life's declining hour,
And in the dust a withering rose-bud lies!