Classic Poem

Bewail him not, the beautiful, the proud:
Must you insult him with your punctual tears?
The candor of the dust is at his ears—
And all your lamentation and your loud
Harangue of glory pass him like a cloud;
And shall you rouse him, now the fatal shears
Click shut, and henceforth curiously he hears
The subterranean ticking through his shroud?

He is no longer hot and bewildered as we;
Feeble and hot no longer: he is cool,
Cooler and quieter than any of us can be—
Standing knee-deep in some perpetual pool:
Whether this be his heaven or his hell
Means nothing now—and it is just as well.