Classic Poem

TO THE MEMORY OF ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN

His was not the glory of the shattering of spears;
He did not cross his sword with Death, where scarlet flags are hurled,
But Death came to him softly, with his dark eyes dim with tears,
And broke a dream of woodland-ways across a singing world.

So doff your hats, good poet-men,
No fingers lift the fallen pen!
The sun forgets to mark the time
Without the music of his rhyme.

His was not the glory of the thundering of wars;
His was not a nation's voice! — are his a nation's tears?
To him the night-winds whispered all the secrets of the stars,
He was priest of all the joyous springs and of the dying years.

So doff your hats, good gentlemen,
For hearts were made to bleed again.
With Archie gone, and all his rhyme,
Who 'll tell the world 't is April-time?