Classic Poem

Where are the visions of my boyish nights?
And where the glowing hopes of yestermorn?
Have I done anything since I was born
But watch, with eyelids closed, unreal sights?

I sometimes think of labors gone before,
And say, “To-morrow morning I resume;
The treasured flask retains the old perfume.”—
Alas! the treasured flask retains no more.

Unless the sun of Austerlitz arise,
In vain the chieftain's head, the hero's heart;
Unless the tricksy wind of fortune start,
We cannot reach our Earthly Paradise.

An archer shot an arrow in the dark,
And laughed, “'Tis but an arrow thrown away.”
But when he sported forth at break of day
He found his brother lying white and stark.

A speck of dust has lost another speck,
And prays the Sund'ring Storm to soothe its woes;
The Storm drives on, and every moment blows
A thousand other tiny loves to wreck.

Each century some mighty soul displays
The all-explaining Fact which all admit;
But ere a hundred years his name is writ
Among the charlatans of bygone days.

“No hell!” the sage proclaimed: we danced with mirth
Apollyon heard, and answered with a smile:
“You cannot do without me yet awhile,
Unless you hanker for a hell on earth.”