Classic Poem

How bravely now I face the marching days,
With Youth's strong armor to defy the years!
Naught now I know of the sharp sting of tears,
Nor of the bleak and solitary ways
Where Sorrow calls her children. Naught dismays
My April spirit; and the night appears
Like some far-distant prospect without fears.
Youth, youth is mine, and youth's strong, fearless gaze.

But when the twilight shall at length abide,
And I have neared the shadowy bourne and vast,
How will it be? … Shall the night overcast
My soul, and shall my sword have softly sighed
Back to its scabbard? … Nay, when Youth has died,
Old age shall take me tenderly at last.