Classic Poem

Exhaustless, Nature, is thy patient mood,
Yea, as the Deep from which thou art renewed.
May not thy hand grow weary at the last
Of imitating on this isle of Time
The patterns of a region more sublime,
When all that loveliness will soon be past?
Will thy hand never falter or grow weak
Strewing soft color on an infant's cheek
Or in a flower's cup, when thou dost know
The hues must perish like the sunset's glow?
The tender ones, with beauty as of heaven,
Bear to their grave the gifts that thou hast given.

Under Death's garland hast thou ever seen
On any furrowed brow the light serene
Of innocence thou pouredst on it? Never,
Neither on man's nor yet on woman's ever.
Thou bearest bud on bud in endless troop,
Whose promise is but born to fade and droop.
Thou weavest; then the web, for all thy skill,
Is rent, but never stands thy shuttle still.
Strange, that thy strength has lasted till to-day,
Thou from thy work-bench hast not shrunk away
Despairing at the grim, unending play!