Classic Poem

Born to a world already past its prime;
Born wiser than is good for men to be
Who totter on a crumbling ledge of time
Above the mad grin of eternity;
Born, too, a little tired … O yeoman folk,
Judge us not all too harshly that we bend
Indifferent shoulders to your jealous yoke,
And care not much how road or furrow end.

And if our tongues are cruel with disdain
Of all your faiths, forgive us; it is only
The envious malignance of our pain,
Who have no faith, and cringe, naked and lonely,
Fueling flesh to dull the wind of reason …
Flesh will requite us well, and in good season.