Classic Poem

The lamp will shed a feeble glimmering light,
When the sustaining oil is nearly spent;
The small stars twinkle in the firmament.
And the moon's paler orb arise on night,
When day has waned; the scathed tree, despite
Of age, look green, with ivy-wreaths besprent;
And faded roses yet retain a scent,
When death has made them loveless to the sight.
So linger on, as seeming loth to die,
Light, colour, sweetness; thus unto the last
The poet o'er his worn-out lyre will cast
A nerveless hand, and still new numbers try;
Not unrewarded, if its parting sigh
Seem like the lingering echo of the past.