Classic Poem

Let us read this ancient thing,
The bronze plate on our dial stone:
Here's Father Time upon the wing.
His scythe too by which all is mown:
Here stars and zodiac signs profound
Are graven all the circle round:
A moralising motto too
In Latin cut, but not quite new,
Completes the decorated ring.

How many golden days there are
In this our life-year's calendar!
Each one diverse is with some,
As with the traveller far from home;
With others show they all one strain,
Like a child's white daisy-chain,
Or a book without a stain,
And sooth to say, without a dower.
By the shadow of the Past,
Upon the sun-smit dial cast,
We know the Present passing hour.
Why should the motto then be new,
To decorate this dial stone,
With that thin green moss overgrown?
It is enough if it be true.