Ah, Tell Them They Are

Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words That Burn.

Can Storied Urn, Or Animated Bust Back To Its Mansion Call The Fleeting Breath? Can Honour's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flatt'ry Soothe The Dull Cold Ear Of Death?

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

Fair Laughs The Morn, And Soft The Zephyr Blows, While Proudly Rising O'er The Azure Realm In Gallant Trim The Gilded Vessel Goes, Youth On The Prow, And Pleasure At The Helm.

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough