Classic Poem

Of all the words serenely wise,
That spake the halting Phrygian slave,
Whose eagle doctrine soaring flies
To cheer the fearful, — spur the brave, —

Of all those noble thoughts of his,
Stamped on an age of blood and sin,
A man may well return to this
Which teaches of the Wayside Inn.

Beside the road the Inn is set,
The common way for rich and poor,
And all who pass are freely met
With greeting glad, and wide-flung door;

Above the porch, about the wall,
The crimson roses droop and twine,
In cool arcade, and shadowed hall,
The clash of dice, the flush of wine, —

And yonder, from the upper room,
A beckoning of shapely arms,
And purple weft of Tyrian loom
That vainly veils Neaera's charms

A garden pleasaunce, all aflame
With blossomings of East and West, —
The athlete field of race and game, —
Grottoes to shield the idler's rest, —

And where the myrtles thickest throng,
Sweet quires unseen succession keep
Of tender-swaying Siren song,
That burns for love, or sighs for sleep.

Pause, if thou wilt, a summer's day,
Wisely enjoy the proffered cheer,
But oh, forbear to stretch thy stay
From week to month, from month to year;

Press on! press on! 'twas not for this
With wistful hopes thy course began;
An emptied cup, — a loveless kiss, —
Be these thy gods, O godlike man?

And if in truth thou wilt press on,
Past ilex shade, and flowery sward,
What then the gods' high benison,
And what the Traveller's reward?

Some Herakleian glory-roll? —
Some errantry by land or sea? —
A Minotaur's unvanquished toll? —
A pale Andromeda to free? —

Nay rather, 'neath a sullen sky
To bear a useless-seeming load,
Averted looks of passers-by,
A quenchless thirst, a toilsome road;

Until at last, in rain or sun,
In lonely vale, or mirthless town,
Soft to thy side approaches One,
And bids thee lay thy burden down.

An home of fuller brotherhood
Thus, Traveller, 'tis thine to win,
Merged in the Infinitely Good,
Oblivious of the Wayside Inn.