Classic Poem

How sad that all great things are sad.—
That greatness knows not to be glad.
The boundless, spouseless, fearful sea
Pursues the moon incessantly;
And Cæsar childless lives and dies.
The thunder-torn Sequoia tree
In solemn isloation cries
Sad chorus with the homeless wind
Above the clouds, above his kind,
Above the bastioned peak, above
All sign or sound or sense of love.
How mateless, desolate and drear
His lorn, long seven thousand year!
My comrades, lovers, dare to be
More truly great than Cæsar; he
Who hewed three hundred towns apart,
Yet never truly touched one heart.
The tearful, lorn, complaining sea
The very moon looks down upon,
Then changes,—as a saber drawn;
The great Sequoia lords as lone
As God upon that fabled throne.
No, no! True greatness, glory, fame,
Is his who claims not place not name,
But loves, and lives content, complete,
With baby flowers at his feet.