Classic Poem

III.

Why do we love thee, Fame? thou art not sweet
If sweetness dwell with softness and repose;
Thou art not fair, if beauty be replete
With peace and tenderness, and ease from woes;
Thou art not faithful, for thy power and flame
To fierce extremes the maddening votary urge;
And oft the winds that should his bliss proclaim,
Swell but the chorus of his funeral dirge:
Yet we do love thee — love thee till the blood
Wasted for thee, forsakes the heart — thy shrine;
Till happiness is past, and toil withstood,
And life itself poured idly forth — for thine
Is that mysterious witchery that beguiles
The soul it stabs, and murders while it smiles.