Classic Poem

In cloudy legends of the dawn of years,
Or sculptured verse on shard or shattered stone,
The oldest lore is still of love and tears,
Of wild dark wars and cities overthrown,
And blows and bitter deeds and mad defeat,
Whereof the burden is, “Yet love is sweet.”

And from all ways, where men have dwelt and died,
From nations dwindled to a minstrel's song,
A sound of voices, mingled, multiplied,
A rumor of delight, despair and wrong,
Of sorrows infinite and strange amaze,
Waft down the troubled winds of many days.

Crying: “We were love's votaries of old;
Though dust, our immemorial names remain
Embalmed in tales a thousand times retold,
That beat like echoes in the heart and brain,
Of stately strains through whose exultant flow
Breathe parting sighs, vain longings, utter woe.”

Crying: “Ten years against the city's walls
The brazen waves of battle beat in vain,
And many a widow wailed in Dardan halls,
And many a Greek lay cold along the plain,
Till hapless Troy expired in blood and flame
And grew a word for Helen's love and shame.”

Crying: “I am Leander, whom the sea
Spared to young Hero's arms a little space,
Then seized and smote the life out suddenly,
One black and bitter night, before her face;
But we had loved, nor gods nor mortals may
Efface the perfect past—we had our day;”

Crying: “The proud, sweet mouth and subtle smile,
The varying mood, the dusk, low-lidded gaze.
Stayed my war-wandering steps beside the Nile;
There, hand in hand, down love's delicious ways,
We walked to death, foreseeing, unafraid,
And passed from dreams to darkness, well repaid.”

But these are intimations faint with time;
Hark, how from hearts that tremble and aspire,
Albeit unknown in any poet's rhyme,
The passion-song leaps up like living fire!—
“Travail and tears, wan brows and wounded feet,
These are love's sure award—yet love is sweet.”