Classic Poem

This day of war and weariness
Will soon with me be done;
But thine, my child of love and joy,
Is only now begun.

Time's years of fever and unrest
Are nearly run for me;
But Life, with all its ill and good,
Is still in store for thee.

My flowers have faded, and my fruit
Is dropping from the tree;
The blossoms of the golden year
Are opening all on thee.

My harvest, with its gathered sheaves,
Is almost over now;
But thine is coming up, my child,
When I am lying low.

'Tis May, all May upon thy cheek,
'Tis Autumn now on mine;
The chill of eve is on my brow
The dew of morn on thine.

I've seen what thou art yet to see,
And felt what thou must feel;
I know each winding of the way,
Each rock, and stream, and hill.

My eyes shall ere long weep their last,
Their springs will soon run dry;
But all thy tears are yet to flow,
Ere thou shalt rest on high.

The farewells dying on my lips
Are living still on thine;
'Tis sunrise on thy glowing peaks,
'Tis sunset upon mine.

I leave the banquet-hall of time
As thou art coming in;
Take thou my place, and be thy feast
Sweeter than mine has been.

I quit the battle-field of life,
I give my sword to thee;
It is thy father's father's sword,
It leads to victory.

I leave the warfare and the work,
The watching and the way,
For thee to finish, when this head
Rests on its couch of clay.

Go, then, fill up with useful deeds,
Thy threescore years and ten.
Till He, who bade thee rise and work,
Bids thee lie down again.

Then lay thee down and rest, as all
Thy fathers have lain down;
Waiting the resurrection-joy,
The glory and the crown!