Classic Poem

This thing of brass is here;
These things of stone abide;
These blocks of marble rear
Their cold and sculptured pride.

These things of wroughten steel
Of centuries long dead,
Their presence still reveal
Despite the ages sped.

Impassionate and still,
Insensate all are they;
Untouched by joy or ill,
As lifeless mortal clay.

Durst say 'tis Nature's plan
That these shall live for aye,
The while the Soul of Man
Alone shall sink and die?

The Soul of Man that breathes,
And strives with Godlike might;
The Soul that loves, and wreathes
The world in bays of light?

Durst say that this is truth?
Then better far that we
Give o'er the dreams of youth,
And stone and iron be!