Classic Poem

Of all the cloudy armies that have passed
Down the gray earth, there is no soul that knew
To vanquish death; but each alone, at last,
Has felt a weariness, a wind that blew
Heavy with sleep — and so has laid him down.
Robert the Strong, whose spear no man could hurl,
Richard and William of the Dreadful Frown,
Have slept with glassy eyes, as might a churl.
But I, who still am warm and breathe the air,
Cannot believe this dim unlikely end.
Those others have been trapped! Death will not dare
To come to me, low-whispering, as a friend;
This body that I am can never lie
So heedless and so chill, as those who die.