Classic Poem

The life which is the life indeed,
Dwells in the heart alone:
It is not blazoned in the creed,
Nor on memorial stone.

The iron chariot of the will
Advances on the field;
The lance of thought is launched with skill
Against the brazen shield.

Imagination climbs the height,
Where Fancy faints and falls;
Ambition towers amidst the fight,
Wherever Fortune calls.

There is the roar of rushing wheels,
On which the passions ride;
Cold Reason frowns, while Pity kneels,
And Anger strikes at Pride.

Fame proudly writes her chosen names
Within the book of Fate;
Love mildly wonders at the flames
Which light the eyes of Hate.

Beside the guarded throne of Power
Sweet Mercy pleading stands;
While Truth — from out Contentment's bower,
Doth reach her fair white hands.

Dear Hope doth cast her anchor deep:
Pale Memory — still doth sigh:
Sad Sorrow turns aside to weep,
While Faith looks to the sky.

So runs the world: — The soul doth swoon
Upon the half-won height;
Belief at morn — distrust at noon,
And dark despair at night.

But deep within the silent heart,
Shut in her court — alone,
Life's gentle image dwells apart —
Unshaken on her throne.

Still, doth she fill her trembling cup
With Nature's crimson wine:
Still, she doth bend the spirit up
With attributes divine.

Nor flood, nor flame, nor thunder's roar,
Disturb her even sway
With eyes fixed on her curtained door,
She dreams from day to day.
Serene — unseen — for evermore:
She is herself alway.

So life, that is the life indeed,
Dwells in the heart alone;
It is not blazoned in the creed,
Nor on memorial stone.