Classic Poem

I am not happy, though my smiles betoken
The jocund fancies which I do not feel;
I am not happy, all my hopes are broken
Upon the world's inexorable wheel.
'Tis said the dying shed no useless tears,
And so, I weep not for the vanished years.

I weep not for them, though they flock around me
In solitude, and in the noontide glare;
I weep not for them, though fond eyes confound me,
With midnight havened in their realmless stare.
With jests upon my lips I stand aghast
O'er the Dead Angel that we call the Past.

No More! O terrible, wild word! the days
That have been shudder in the iron grave;
And lo, I totter on, in blind amaze,
'Mid the black gulches of th' o'erwhelming wave:
No star-bright seas, no Pharos-litten shore,
While the hoarse Raven croaks, " No More! No More! "

And still I weep not, it may be, alas!
That I am hardened into more than stone —
Ah, happy they whose hearts like brittle glass,
Break ere the worst of bitterness is known.
The cold remain, the gentle pass away,
In their white innocence — how happy they!

The drums are clattering in the crowded streets,
The fife and bugle warlike concords blend,
The roar of cannon to my soul repeats:
" Peace, weary one, thy pilgrimage can end —
There's rest for thee upon the battle field,
With triumph towering in thy shattered shield! "