Classic Poem

It comes to all of us, or soon or late,
And we must buckle close our coat of mail;
Hand may not falter, nay, nor keen eye quail
Before the destined duel with our Fate!
And some who conquer, find they abdicate
The throne which was their joy; and some who fail
To win the battle, ardent still and pale,
Fight on,—nor will the angry Gods placate.—
But some, with visor down to hide the eyes
That looked upon a high love's shattered faith,
And some, whom Love relentlessly passed by,
Must battle without hope.—For them there lies
No eager glory in Life's sacrifice,
No victory except in loyal Death!