Classic Poem

When winter snows upon thy golden hairs,
And frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near;
When dark shall seem thy day that never clears
And all lies withered that was held so dear;
Then take this picture which I here present thee,
Limned with a pencil not all unworthy.
Here see the gifts that God and nature lent thee;
Here read thyself, and what I suffered for thee.
This may remain thy lasting monument,
Which happily posterity may cherish;
These colours with thy fading are not spent;
These may remain when thou and I shall perish.
If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby;
They will remain, and so thou canst not die.