Classic Poem

They bear no laurels on their sunless brows,
— Nor aught within their pale hands as they go;
— They look as men accustomed to the slow
And level onward course 'neath drooping boughs.
Who may these be no trumpet doth arouse,
— These of the dark processionals of woe,
— Unpraised, unblamed, but whom sad Acheron's flow
Monotonously lulls to leaden drowse?
These are the Failures. Clutched by Circumstance,
— They were — say not too weak! — too ready prey
To their own fear whose fixed Gorgon glance
— Made them as stone for aught of great essay; —
Or else they nodded when their Master-Chance
— Wound his one signal, and went on his way.