Classic Poem

Night has resumed our hope: the fight is done,
and fall'n once more the high heart that dared to assume
a god for us; and few beside the tomb
we bend, of all the folk his love made one,

questioning the deep mind if fame, to have won
had made so sacred evermore their doom
as night herself hath wed intemerate, whom
she spared the crown that brands the victor Hun.

She knows, the night with whom they lie, she knows
and earth remembers when our unfaith grows;
each autumn of her dolorous year shall have

lost winds that sweep the obscure storm of our griefs
where drear hills hide the little folks, once brave,
and rain in the dark on mounds of all foil'd chiefs.