Classic Poem

A riot-maker! Can the fruit
Of frenzy be a gracious thing?
His soul has hands; above the bruit
They lift a song-bird quivering.

World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go
Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes
Mourn a deserted earth? But no!
Men go not down till men arise.

The game is Life's. She plays to win;
And whirls to dust her overlings;
Her abluent winds shall spare no sin,
Though hidden in the breast of kings;

And Earth is smiling as she takes
To her old lap their fallen bones,
For down the throbbing ways there wakes
The laughter of her greater sons.