Classic Poem

And was it true, or but some splendid dream—
That pageant of the dawn, whose glittering spears
Routed the cohorts of ephemeral fears,
Throning proud Youth triumphant and supreme?
Why did no trumpet's monitory scream
Warn us of wounds, and of the surge of tears? . . . .
Ah, now, as evening lowers, and twilight nears,
How faint and far those fields of morning seem!

Well, let the fair auroral phantoms go;
We thank the mirage that it led to light;
We thank defeat for these resplendent scars:
Now, after sunset—night, but through the night,
Shall not the dreamer in the darkness know
The solace and communion of the stars?