Classic Poem

Is this defeat then, after all—
This new indifference to the street,
This unfelt weight of roof and wall—
Is this defeat?

I thought to make my spirit wear
Glittering garments of unrest,
To keep my keen, knife-edged despair
Unsheathed and brilliantly unrepressed.

But days have worn my unrest thin;
Time's soft fingers gently close
Over my outstretched hand, and in
Their certain touch I feel repose.

This is defeat; I will submit,
Resigned to the quieting decree
Of defeat that is indefinite