Classic Poem

Sire with the silver hair,
Shrunken whose features are.
Why dost thou weep?
Sad art thou, weary one,
Nearing the set of sun,
That thy work nobly done,
Ends with a sleep!

Cheer these; thy hands are worn,
Bleeding thy feet and torn; —
Wouldst thou not rest?
On yonder Silent Shore
Soundeth no battle-roar:
There shall fierce storms no more
Beat on thy breast.

Struggle and toil and care,
Sure thou hast borne thy share;
Strength is but let.
Young limbs are strong and free,
Young shoulders take from thee
Loads that weigh heavily: —
Be thou content.

Under cool grasses sweet,
Creeping at head and feet,
Thus shalt thou sleep.
Under the autumn glow,
Under the winter snow,
Never a pang to know —
Why dost thou weep?

After the peaceful night
Cometh the fadeless light —
(Hope of the just).
After the sword and shield,
Palms shall the victor wield.
Count it, then, gain to yield
Dust unto dust.