Classic Poem

They whined their scrannel warning to the young:
" Lo, all your dream of glory, how it lies!
Was this its promise then, the dust and dung,
The stench of blood, and cloud of sexton flies? "

Even such we knew, some worm o' the cesspit stung
Who rail'd on fair love's arrogant emprise
Because no breath from heaven made broad their lung
And mire of flesh dwelt in their abject eyes.

But how could glory be, save that she must
Stoop from her sphere to quicken sordid dust
Turning to rapture our inflicted need?
Poor souls! to have never known the immortal will
That never owns defeat, the heroic deed
Whose doing is its only glory still.