Classic Poem

I see the days stretch out in wavering line
Toward that sure day when we shall lie in mould.
What fate, I wonder, sordid or divine,
Within their close-shut hands for us they hold?
We have walked with the winds in chasmy places,
And been as birds down sea-born tempests flung, —
Seen joy and wonder on each other's faces,
And learned that life is maddening still, and young.
Will the slow days cancel, — or reconcile, —
These with more sober meanings that they bring?
Shall we part bitter, or with humorous smile,
Or with heart-rent tragic remembering? —
Or sink in friendship, each a tired guest
Who finds the dreamless fireside slumber best?