Classic Poem

Courage is but a word, and yet, of words,
The only sentinel of permanence;
The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days,
We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords,
And on. For faith — without it — has no sense;
And love to wind of doubt and tremors sways;
And life forever quaking marsh must tread.

Laws give it not; before it prayers will blush;
Hope has it not; nor pride being true;
'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields,
But hales us on to breast the rush
Of all the fortunes we shall happen thro';
And when Death calls across his shadowy fields —
Dying, it answers: " Here! I am not dead! "