Classic Poem

Faint in the face of some controlling fear —
A tyrant shadow with cold, sneering eyes,
Which at an honest laugh would disappear —
We clothe ourselves in plausible disguise
And wrong our nature with laborious lies.

Fear of the scorn which rightly understood,
Is honor paid to genius unaware;
Fear of the venomed fangs of that vile brood
Who fawn on Fortune while the skies are fair,
And bark about the footsteps of Despair:

Fear to be loyal to ourselves through all,
Unshaken, unashamed in all men's sight;
Fear like the Apostle's in the High Priest's hall,
Who, shrinking from the martyr's glorious right,
Disowned the Master and forswore him quite:

Fear to be merely human, simply man —
Richer than kings in that plain dignity —
Grandly imperfect, after God's own plan;
Finding in our own faults full charity
And general pardon for humanity.

Ah, no, we lack the courage to be real;
Each in his various folly toils and tries
To mould his nature to some false ideal,
And walks a-tiptoe to increase his size,
Decked out in borrowed plumage, jackdaw-wise.

Who dare say: I have neither gold nor lands,
High heritage of ancient blood or name;
Labor hath set its seal upon my hands;
Son of the sons of toil unknown to fame
I am, and thereunto I take no shame?

Who dare say to the world's conflicting creeds:
Solace I sought in ye and was denied;
I leaned on ye and found ye hollow reeds;
Old, dying dungeoners of truth! ye hide
The face of God with dust of human pride?

Alas how few! yet dared we rise above
The common curse of insincerity,
Frank, just and fearless, strong in truth and love,
A law unto ourselves, that were to be
First of the sons of time, wise, great and free.