Classic Poem

Yet in ten years a high work may be done,
Labour accomplished that shall put to shame
The swift departure of the vanquished sun,
When the red waves receive on crests of flame
The lingering arrows its last efforts aim.
For in ten years the meadow-sweet immortal
Of song may crown and robe one much-loved name;
Yea, and the wings of song may through death's portal
Bear, living and triumphant, one flower-form,
Still beautiful and white, still breathing, warm.
In ten years, sweetheart, I have set thee high
In many hearts, so that thou shalt not die;
And lifted thee above the flickering breeze
Of earth, and spurned for thee death's vengeful seas.