Classic Poem

Life , like a page unpenned,
Spreads out its whiteness;
Nothing, from end to end,
Marring its brightness.

Surely a field to claim
Steadfast endeavour?
Where one might win a name
Sounding for ever?

. . . . . .

Now — to review it all —
What a prosaic,
Forced, ineffectual,
Paltry mosaic!

Plans that ne'er found a base;
Wingless upyearning;
Speed that ne'er won the race;
Fire without burning;

Doubt never set at rest
Stifle or falter it;
Good that was not the best ...
Yet — would you alter it?

Yet — would you tread again
All the road over?
Face the old joy and pain —
Hemlock and clover?

. . . . . .

Yes. For it still was good,
Good to be living;
Buoyant of heart and blood;
Fighting, forgiving;

Glad for the earth and sky;
Glad — for mere gladness;
Grateful, one knew not why,
Even for sadness;

Finding the ray of hope
Gleam through distresses;
Building a larger scope
Out from successes;

Blithe to the close, and still
Tendering ever,
Both for the Good and Ill,
Thanks to the Giver .

. . . . . .

So, though the script is slow,
Blurred though the line is,
Let the poor record go
Onward to Finis.