Classic Poem

We, the so-doubtful heroes of today —
We children of all irony, all despair, —
We proud explorers who have missed our way —
We, Icarus-brood hurled headlong through the air, —
For us, what guide and leader can suffice?
What champion or what prophet or what sage?
What herald of an Earthly Paradise?
What golden hero from the Golden Age?
Who — save the ancient, tattered, unhorsed knight —
The renowned windmill-warrior, sore and spent —
That luckless champion who in every fight
Proved his cause lost beyond all argument.
Yes! deck the lean horse! Bring the rusty lance! —
And let Don Quixote ride forth toward romance!

See how he rides, that battered ancient shade —
(Our hero, or else hero have we none — )
Don Quixote, vanquished, and by fate betrayed,
The sorriest scarecrow underneath the sun:
See how he rides! Indomitable still,
With Roland's horn still echoing in his breast —
Spending the riches of his knightly will
On causes vain, and hussies sore-distressed —
Careering through a world that has no place
For the quaint chivalry that the legends told —
Seeing brass basins turn to helms of gold —
Finding the Virgin in the harlot's face:
The dupe of an archaic lying vision —
Time's fool ... the ages' jest ... the oaf's derision. ...
O dauntless hero of the rusty mail!
You knew the appalling truth before you died —
Knew that your knighthood was of no avail,
And that the old romancers all had lied.
Yet shall your followers, to the farthest age,
Still saddle the lean horse and grasp the lance,
And seek your dusty highroads of romance,
And your vain wars against the giants wage.
For comedy is in our deepest blood;
We breathe frustration from the very air.
O great Don Quixote! Let your reckless mood
Still be our light, through midnights of despair —
That we, though knowing all that once you knew,
Hopeless and grim, adventure forth with you!