Classic Poem

The roses Time has showered upon thy cheeks
Are but the flowers that deck thy corse; he gave
The light that from thy eye divinely breaks,
But as a lamp to guide thee to the grave;
And all those golden locks that downward stray,
Point to the dust, and beckon thee away.
Hope is a sensitive plant, looks fair to gaze
At distance on, but touched it shrinks and dies!
And Pleasure, like the bee, a season stays,
Steals the soul's honey, stings it, and then flies:
And Life itself's a summer flower, to bloom
An idle hour — then drop into the tomb!