Classic Poem

The sun had touched Cithæron, and the air
Lay violet along the Attic plain.
“The risk is glorious, the hope is fair.”
He said—as one that turns not back again.

But they who closed about him would have kept
That soul beloved until the last red ray,
And even he who brought the hemlock wept;
But nowise longer would he brook delay.

At Athens long ago it was—but still
That sun seems gilding his undying phrase
Which bids a failing mortal fear no ill,
Though he has reached the outgate of his days.

“The risk is glorious, the hope is fair”—
Close to the gate I hear, nor falter there.