Classic Poem

In that sharp war where Caesar's slayers died,
There was a moment when it seemed decreed,
As sank the sun blood-red in clumps of reed,
That victory should take the guilty side.

But just as they were winning fast and wide,
The ghost of Caesar, on a phantom steed,
Bore down on Cassius with a soundless speed,
And with a sword of shadow turned the tide.

I think that in Life's battle, now and then,
The ghost of some high impulse or great plan,
Which they have murdered, may appear to men,

And, like the shade of Caesar, check the van
Of their success, though odds to one be ten,
And cow their soul, as only phantoms can.