Classic Poem

You ask for fame or power?
Then up and take for text:
This is my hour,
And not the next, nor next!

Oh, wander not in ways
Of ease or indolence!
Swift come the days,
And swift the days go hence.

Strike! while the hand is strong:
Strike! while you can and may:
Strength goes ere long,—
Even yours will pass away.

Sweet seem the fields, and green,
In which you fain would lie:
Sweet seems the scene
That glads the idle eye:

Soft seems the path you tread,
And balmy soft the air,—
Heaven overhead
And all the earth seem fair:

But, would your heart aspire
To noble things,—to claim
Bard's, statesman's fire—
Some measure of their fame;

Or, would you seek and find
Their secret of success
With mortal kind?
Then, up from idleness!

Up—up! all fame, all power
Lies in this golden text:—
This is my hour—
And not the next, nor next!

Is there a God, then, above us?
I ask it again and again:
Is there a good God to love us—
A God who is mindful of men?

Is there a God who remembers
That we have our nights as our noons?
Our dark and our dismal Decembers
As well as our garden-gay Junes?