Classic Poem

Under the slow-turning suns,
Age after age,
A bending animal,
A stooped thing,
Whose seed was yet to be man—
Has fought through many deaths
To one end—
Uprightness and aloofness
From mud.
But to-day I saw a column of men
Marching on a field,
Striving again to be one
With mud.

O mad musician, singing in the grass,
Trusting green ways and clear September sky,
How should you think that crimson leaves will pass,
The towering golden-rod bend down to die;
Or that the flame-cupped poppy, blooming here,
Shall lend its petals to you for a bier?

With warmth you come, and with the warmth will go,
Troubadour, piping to the summer sun,
Knight of the earth, so stanch you do not know
Your shining armor is of gossamer spun;
So brave with living that you will not heed
The wind, that gossips snowfall with a reed.

And so, sing on, nor fear the winter's breath,
You, who have never known the touch of frost;
Aye, serenade the very halls of death,
And cease with summer—wondering and lost
In freezing blasts, you did not dream might fall
Upon a world where light and song were all!