Classic Poem

I climb that was a clod;
I run whose steps were slow;
I reap the very wheat of God
That once had none to sow.

Is Joy a lamp outblown?
Truth out of grasping set?
But nay, for Laughter is mine own;
I knock and answer get.

Nor is the last word said;
Nor is the battle done;
Somewhat of glory and of dread
Remains for set of sun.

For I have scattered seed
Shall ripen at the end;
Old Age holds more than I shall need,
Death more than I can spend.