Classic Poem

  A. I CANNOT bring him back;—for he is dead.
I cannot re-illuminate his clay:
The Spirit, which once shone through it like flame,
And soared up to the brain and said, Be wise,
Is flown beyond the stars! With him departed
The beauty of the world—truth,—genius,—all
That lent this orb its lustre.
  B. You are young;
And years will bring you calm. Meantime, take comfort.
Think not that all of good has passed away:
There is no hour but hath its noble deed:
Each minute is rich in worth,—heroic thoughts,
High, gentle, generous acts;—All that Time lacks
Is—an historian!