Classic Poem

'Tis no self-pity, with an " O-how-long, "
'Tis no self-love, with " yet-I-mastered-fate, "
That rivets that stanza to the iron gate
Whereby ye enter this demesne of song.
Here as I open the black bolts and strong,
Whilst first ye look upon this new estate
Of the still-living Muse, read once again
That scroll: brief record of my strife with Pain
In years before. Thus, when ye meet his face
Herein, hereafter, — more wrinkled, leathern, grim, —
Meet Pain more fierce with many-spiked mace,
His body sprouting many a strange new limb, —
Ye'll know with what a desperate embrace
'Twas mine a second time to strive with him. ...

A second time with what a weary back,
And scarred, bent shoulder; for the first had been
A strife to me so memorably keen,
That now I said, " No more can Pain attack
With such a might, and now I know his worst. "
Yet though still weak from battles unforgot,
With tongue still sanded from old fear and thirst,
I hoped; for hope was in this inland spot,
Twin of its inland beauty. So I wrote
My friend (my friend who knew, from talks together
In sea-board cities, through what world of weather
I'd kept for years my little bark afloat):
" Rejoice with me; at last the tempests cease;
I've come to land; I've found my work, my peace. "