Classic Poem

So, one by one, the inexorable years
Have taught how slow my feet, how far the sun:
Thy streams are wide, O world: thy clouds are dun;
Thy mountains shadowy with the gulfs of fears,
Where hangs the unfelled pine; thy dry wind seres;
And reptiles foul thy pleasant springs that run;
Yet though I die before the light be won,
That light more dim to me at last for tears,

O let it be on some supreme far height,
Facing some westward ocean, blue below,
With might to lean upon the verge—with might
To lift the arm and point that they may know,
Who seek me dying, I die unto the light,
And leave me dead in sunset lying so!