Classic Poem

And what do we deserve? By far
Better it is our generation perish,
Perish, till we remember what we are.
Better it is that Earth be purged of us;
She hath need of purer eyes.
We have forgot, in our inequities,
Our part in the selfless harmonies.

A sudden breeze lifts, rending off the pall —
Darkling Italy's white coronal
Appears: Crest of all the barrier
Wrathborn, unearthly in his fixed mood,
Detached from multitude,
That struggler now so still,
Monte Rosa, in the lightless atmosphere.