Classic Poem

Friends, when I die, — you who were friends indeed, —
Looking upon the tarnished fame whose blind
And battered mirror I shall leave behind, —
When to defend your love you have sore need,
Say then: — " He strove a little in his youth
Along the measured ways the world calls fair;
And in good time he could have triumphed there
In open honor and unclouded truth.
But life confounded him; life, far too great
For measured ways; insistent at his ears
Played its wild symphony of laughter, tears,
Desires, defeats, and undiscovered fate;
And he went down, still doubtful of his goal
But still a-dream with it — seeking his soul. "