Classic Poem

These locks so light and thin,
Once waved luxuriant o'er a playful brow;
The sunlight sends these eyes no pleasure now,
Their harvests gathered in.

Not one is spared to me,
They all have fallen in Life's narrow field,
Green waves the grass, their ashes are concealed,
Remains their history.

They fell not in the fight,
Like steel-girt Warriors in the castle's breach,
Their deeds did nothing high or mighty teach,
A battle for the Right.

But cold Forgetfulness,
And ceremony with a tedious eye,
And worldly Wisdom aping courtesy,
And sickly stinginess;

These were their enemies,—
Farewell! though I am sad, yet in my heart
There burns the splendor of a better part,
That which ye cannot prize.