Classic Poem

The closing of my strain of many years
Brings solemn thoughts: sweet death with tender wings
Now round me, gentle as a woman, sings,
And all his chant awakes the swelling tears.
The fight is nearly ended I have fought;
The crown is nearly woven I have won;
Almost complete the work at which I've wrought;
The never-ceasing toil seems well-nigh done.

Solemn it is to put my strong sword down,
Ungird my armour and to lay my shield
At length upon the red deep-trodden field,—
Most solemn to assume the conqueror's crown:
When sin, time, death—the final foes—shall yield
Then am I victor—till then, Fly, renown!