Classic Poem

There are hills too steep for our feet to climb,
There are goals too far to gain,
And in every breast there's a glorious best
The dreamer shall never attain.
For the poet dies with his songs unsung,
And the artist at last grows faint,
And he sinks to sleep and the grave must keep
The pictures he'd planned to paint.

We can never finish the work of life,
Nor live to our fullest here;
We must carry away from its house of clay
The vision we've cherished dear.
We dream fair dreams for the years to be,
But merchant and toiler, too,
And the soldier brave take into the grave
Some deeds they had hoped to do.

Perhaps they sing at their sweetest now,
Those poets of yesterday,
And have caught the themes of the golden dreams
Which came from the far away.
Perhaps the painters on canvas true
Now see with a clearer eye
And paint the things of the visionings
That were theirs in the days gone by.

Oh, never we reach to our fullest height,
And never we do our all;
We must turn away at the close of day
When the tools from our fingers fall.
But it isn't a failure to hold a dream
That never on earth comes true,
For the tasks of worth that we miss on earth
Are reserved for our souls to do.