Classic Poem

Tall , stately plants, with spikes and forks of gold,
Crowd every slope: my heart repeats its cry, —
A cry for strength, for strength and victory;
The will to strive, the courage overbold
That would have moved me once to turn indeed,
And level with the dust each lordly weed.
But now I weep upon my wayside walks,
And sigh for those fair days, when glorying
I stood a boy amid the mullein-stalks,
And dreamed myself like him the Lion-King;
There, where his shield shed arrows, and the clank
Clashed on his helm of battle-axe and brand,
He pushed the battle backward, rank on rank,
Fallen in the sword-swing of his stormy hand.