Classic Poem

We met when you were in the May of life,
And I had left its June behind me far.
Some barren victories — much defeat and strife —
Had marked my spirit with many a hidden scar.

I was a man whose inward bruises men
Scarce guessed at; strangely weak; more strangely strong;
Daring at times; and uttering now and then,
Out of a turbid soul, a limpid song.

Fitful in effort — fixed and clear in aim;
Poor, but uncovetous of the wealth I lack;
Ever half-scaling the hard hill of fame,
And ever by some impish fate flung back —

Such did you find me, in that city gray
Where we were plighted, O my comrade true:
My wife, now dearer far than on the day
When this our love was new.