“When the young die,” the Grecian mourner said,
“The springtime from the year hath vanished;”
The gray-haired poet, in unfailing youth,
Sits by the shrine of Truth,
Her oracles to spell,
And their deep meaning tell;
Or else he chants a bird-like note
From that thick-bearded throat
Which warbled forth the songs of smooth-cheeked May
Beside Youth’s sunny fountain all the day;
Sweetly the echoes ring
As in the flush of spring;
At last the poet dies,
The sunny fountain dries,—
The oracles are dumb, no more the wood-birds sing.