Classic Poem

Here in the end, to the place of the wind and the waters,
All that is flesh or dream of the flesh will come.
All of the roads of the world at the last turn hither
When the singing feet are weary, and the lips are numb.
We are young now; we are gay. It does not matter.
We too shall come.

Glorious women with white, rebellious faces
Tossed like foam on the heave of the sullen sea,
Crying in vain revolt at the slow, relentless
Beat of the whelming winds of eternity
That pound their pitiful beauty into oblivion —
I have seen them go. I know what the end must be.

Dominant men, the iron of heart, the defiant,
Building a fame to challenge the heedless sky,
Rearing a tower of triumph, a dream in granite
To mock at time and fling decay the lie ...
The cold waves crumble and sap and gulf them under.
Slowly, aye — but surely as we, they die.

Pale-browed priests, wide-eyed with a valiant vision,
Mouthing of God and a life that defies the tomb,
Stand rapt-faced on the edge of the flying waters,
Dream of a dawn and a peace outlasting doom.
The gray cold breakers swallow their prayer into silence,
And the dream in their eyes is drowned in the leprous spume.

Beauty and fame and faith — they are one forever,
One with the fretted foam and the wind and the spray;
All of their loves and deeds and dreams forgotten
In the gray crush of the fog, and the water's gray;
All of their glory mute in the crying silence ...
We shall be mute tomorrow, even as they.

Oh, there is time for us yet — good time for singing,
And wine, and games, and the white delirium
Of the kiss in the night. But ever across our laughter
An echo falls like a sword, and we are dumb.
The voice of the water speaks. Our hearts make answer: