Classic Poem

It is not life's bright hope or hell's dark terrors,
Or earthly benison for my poor heart,
Or spirit prescient of the mind's dumb errors
That bid me shun the easy, bloodless part.
Nor is it that my eyes shall soon forget
The flaming breath of sunset in the west,
Or that my lips in frigid firmness set
Shall soon be careless of thy lips at best
Dark are the dim, remembered paths of earth
Where once our feet in laughing measures sped,
Dark are the days that echo my heart's dearth
As I stand halting 'mongst the living dead.
I should not quail at heaven's beckoning moan,
Only that going I shall leave thee lone.