Classic Poem

Behold , I stand upon a speek of earth,
To work the works allotted me — and die,
Glad among toils to snatch a little mirth,
And, when I must, unmurmuring down to lie.
In the same soil that gave me food and birth:
For all that went before me, what care I
The past, the future — these are but a dream;
I want the tangible good of present worth.
And heed not wisps of light that dance and gleam
Over the marshes of the foolish past:
We are a race the best, because the last,
Improving all, and happier day by day
To think our chosen lot hath not been cast
In those old puerile times, discreetly swept away.