Classic Poem

Fair is their fame who stand in earth's high places,
Rulers of men, strong-armed to break and bind.
Fairer the light which shines from comrade faces:
Those we have loved, and lost, and kept in mind.

These be our heroes, hearts unnamed in story,
Foot-firm that stood, and swerved not from the right;
Though in the world's eyes they attained no glory,
Girt to their goal they gained the wished-for height.

Now for reward no after-age shall sunder
These from their right to rest without a name.
Wide are the wings of heaven which fold them under,
Who to the Winds of God resign their fame.

Blow, ye great Winds! Where'er man's spirit labours
Breathe on his lips breath from the life they spent!
Comrades to all their kind, dear friends and neighbours,
There, where the work goes well, they rest content.

They are the race,—they are the race immortal,
Whose beams make broad the common light of day!
Though Time may dim, though Death hath barred their portal,
These we salute, which nameless passed away.