Classic Poem

Out from the dust of ages,
Out from the wreck of years,
Fronting the work of sages,
Fronting the waste of tears,
Radiant, swift, immortal,
Earth flings the soul of man,
And shuts the iron portal
That hides creation's plan.

Here with the gate behind him,
Here in the narrow path,
Fronting the suns that blind him,
Fronting the winds of wrath,
Man, with his head uplifted,
Man, with his hair out blown,
Virile, and strong, and gifted,
Builds for himself a throne.

Say that the grave is waiting,
Say that the shroud is white,
Say that the strength of hating
Owneth no victor's might,
Earth, from the cycles olden,
Holds for the life complete,
Blossoms, and sunlight golden,
Red lips, and kisses sweet.

Whose are the chains that fetter?
Whose are the swords that bite?
Master's, and yet no better
Than we, who brave the fight;
Earth hath no royal races —
Crowns, yea, and swords must break,
When in the hidden faces
Death finds the hearts that quake.

Why fear the pain that passes?
Lo, birds will always sing —
Yea, and the vernal grasses
Wake with each waking spring:
And from the silent sleeping,
Strong grow the weary eyes,
Ere comes the upward sweeping
Far through the distant skies.

Fronting the years that lengthen
Like some recurring chain,
Souls in life's combat strengthen,
Conquering death and pain:
Battling in God-like fashion
Through ways that none have trod,
Rise they, by noble passion,
Up to the heights of God.