Classic Poem

We , teeming transients of the sun,
Until our eager race be run,
Bestir us in a hundred ways
To leave, before the caverned dark
Engulf us, some small, vital spark —
A firefly in a somber maze —
To say to those who follow, we
Are not extinguished utterly;
Our mortal, that is less than naught,
Fixed in a white, immortal thought.