Classic Poem

Whom I loved Fortune loved not;
Whom I remember are forgot
As though they never breathed this air
That to my listening soul sighs, “Where?”

My saints have on the earth no shrine
Save in this shattered heart of mine
Whose trembling walls are sinking fast,
Whose incense hath not long to last.

My prophets none did heed nor trust;
My conquerors, conquered, bit the dust.
Not with their latest breath they knew
That deeds of theirs could none undo.

Nor consciousness of might or right
Sustained them in the gathering night,
But in all self-abasement they
From the great battle passed away.

Oh, somewhere be it otherwise
Than under these occluding skies!
Somewhere, in unimagined ways,
Be scored their triumph and their praise!

Where'er they dwell, to earth unknown,
I am content if me they own
Among their number,—theirs forgot,
Unsung, unshrined, exalted not,—

And if their shining brows (unstarred)
But bend on me their long regard,
And if their silence saith, “Have peace,
From tears for us, or paeans, cease!”