Classic Poem

What shall the coming stormy decade bring?
Yea, even the long months of the coming year?
What flowers for me shall shine in fields of spring,
Or gladden golden August or the clear
June days? — doth any triumph hasten near? —
Or is my victory pressed between Death's hands,
And will Death's footstep only bring it here?
Oh, whispers reach me from far unseen lands,
Wherein full many a poet-victor stands
Crowned, glad, divine, triumphant — yea, the singing
Of many voices lifts me; there expands
Blue sky before my gaze, a message bringing
That bids me wait in peace the final morn
When I shall pass beyond earth's spears, earth's scorn.