Classic Poem

If we are weak with immemorial strife,
If sadder destiny each aera weaves,
Yet listen to the lyrics 'mid the leaves,
Look to the life beyond the verge of life.
Let the dull lecture and the womanish weep:
To the Poet leave the wine of song, the realm of sleep.
...
" We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."