Classic Poem

One evening, by some hearth, I know not when,
A stranger to my song shall come to read
What faring was my lot through times and men,
How I was proud, how sorry, with what heed
I was glad of women, and the stars, and corn
Swelling upon my windy Cotswold height,
What miracles I counted in the morn,
And how I was defeated at the night.
And lie shall make some story, as I make
Of men who sang as Marvell and as Donne,
And he shall quick his wisdom for my sake,
And put the plumes of celebration on,
And tell how, as of old, the clouded brain
Of man in song was a bright heaven again.