Classic Poem

Where is thy father? In the grave he lies,—
And the keen worms are busy with his eyes,
And his pale mistress, death,
With scentless bloodless breast above him hangs,
And lo! her lips are as a vampire's fangs
And poisonous is her breath.

He had his day and passed. And then the sun
Was bright for thee, and thy day was begun
And all the air was sweet:
Soft loves flocked round thee, and the summer flamed,
And thou wast young and strong and unashamed;
Winged were thy passionate feet.

Yet dost thou not remember, when thy breath
(On some June night when all is still as death,—
No murmur in the trees)
Passes, caressing, through a woman's hair,
That some day God will plant the black mould there,
Or stray shells from the seas?

That tossed about from wandering wave to wave
The body thou wouldst give thy life to save
May on the next night be?
Hurled in its naked whiteness by white tides
Against the unkissing grim cliff's iron sides,—
Sport to the wanton sea.

So it has been and shall be.—For the dead
Now round and over us are poured and shed:—
They fill the vital air.
The rose is redder in this hedge to-day
For Cleopatra's blood: the waves less grey
That Shelley's soul is there.

Thy little day shall pass,—and then the great
New centuries shall roll in regal state
Along their destined road.
Art thou renowned? Yet see how small a mark
Thy light hath made upon the eternal dark,
The eternal fates' abode!

Just like one foot-print on the desert sand
Is one frail human life. Grey leagues expand
In front, behind, around.
There is the foot-print,—and the endless waste,
And the cold stars interminably chaste
Far up, and never a sound.