Classic Poem

They tell us — whom the gods love die in youth!
'Tis something to die innocent and pure;
But death without performance is most sure
Ambition's martyrdom — worst death, in truth,
To the aspiring temper, fix'd in thought
Of high achievement! Happier far are they
Who, as the Prophet of the Ancients taught,
Hail the bright finish of a perfect day!
With fullest consummation of each aim,
That wrought the hope of manhood — with the crown
Fix'd to their mighty brows, of amplest fame —
Who smile at death's approaches and lie down
Calmly, as one beneath the shade-tree yields,
Satisfied of the morrow and green fields.