Classic Poem

Though Death has claimed my dust
For the earth's need,
Lent me a while on trust
By flower and seed;

Though Failure clutched me in
His iron hand
With that old look and grin
I understand;

They neither can annul
Nor make accurst
The light that through my skull
Sifts still, as first

It did, when in my eyes
(Which now are none)
It woke some dear surmise
Of joy begun,

And those black frosts that stir
In the deep wood
Told me without demur
That life was good.