Classic Poem

One gazed back sadly on his years withdrawn,
The glad, fair, hopeful years that never yet
Had borne the marks of error or regret;
Pure as the page that ne'er was written on,
Or cherry blossoms in spring's tender dawn;
“Alas,” he grieved, “life's page no more is white,
Life's blossom now is faded as with blight.
The stainless freshness of my youth is gone.

And yet the tree's true purpose is not bloom:
The white flower withers that the fruit may come:
The page lacks meaning till on it is traced
The deep-lined word; yea tho by blots defaced
If ours be writ with courage and with truth,
We need not mourn the unsoiled blank of youth.