Classic Poem

They do not live who choose the middle way,
Whom ecstasy and anguish have not known,
Who scale no trembling heights, nor plumb the lone
Depths of an aching darkness in bright day.
They miss the passion with the pain, the gay
High tides that sweep the spirit to its own,
The lifting surge of music, the dear tone
Of a loved voice in pleading or in play.
They miss the hurts and stumblings; surely fear
Is never theirs, nor groping in the night;
In their serene cool weather come no dread
Torrents or tempests to corrupt their sight,
Nor any rainbow; neither do they hear
The sea, nor does the thunder wake these dead.