Classic Poem

So much of life was sudden thrust
Under this dumb disfiguring dust,
Such laughter, hopes, impatient power,
Such visions of a rounded hour,
Such ardour for things deep and great,
Such easy disregard of fate,
Such memories of strange lands remote,
Of solitudes where eagles float,
Of plains where under other stars
Strange races lock in alien wars,
And isles of spicery that sleep
Unroused on an unfurrowed deep —

All this — and then his voice, his eyes,
His eager questions, gay replies,
The warmth he put into the air —
And, oh, his step upon the stair!
Poor grave, too narrow to contain
Such store of life, in vain, in vain,
The grass-roots and the ivy-ropes
Shall pinion all those springing hopes,
In vain the ivy and the grass
Efface the sense of what he was,
Poor grave! — for he shall burst your ties,
And come to us with shining eyes,
And laughter, and a quiet jest,
Whenever we, who loved him best,
Speak of great actions simply done,
And lives not vain beneath the sun.