Classic Poem

No man can shut the open door;
Strange hieroglyphs of mystic lore
Are writ on it from beam to sill;
The gleams and shapes of weapons fill
Its silent chambers: field and fray
Of centuries have borne away
Its armor to their victories,
And yet to-day the armor lies
Unstained and bright and whole and good,
For each man's utmost hardihood.

All men go freely out and in,
And choose their arms to fight and win;
But one man goes with silly hands,
And helpless, halting, choosing stands,
And from the glittering, deadly steels,
Fits him with clumsy sword, and deals
A feeble, witless, useless blow,
Which hurts no friend and helps no foe.
Close by his side his brother makes
Swift choice, unerringly, and takes
From those same chambers hilt and blade
With which more magic sword is made
Than that far-famed which armed the hand
Of Lion-Heart in Eastern land.
So fight and fray the centuries,
The right and truth with wrong and lies;
So men go freely out and in,
And choose their arms, and lose and win;
And none can shut the open door,
All writ with signs of mystic lore,
Where weapons stout and old and good
For each man's utmost hardihood
Lie ready, countless, priceless, free,
Within the magic armory.