Classic Poem

The soul puts forth some venture—then we say,
I know full well I surely shall succeed,
And yet we know, we know not—we ourselves,
Make of ourselves false prophets to our souls,
And fain would we believe that we are true;
Yet do we love to toss the ball of chance,
And in the relish of uncertainty,
We find a spring for action which were lost,
Could we foresee the struggle to the end.
The riddle, guessed, awakens thought no more,
Nor would this life have value in our eyes
Could we outrun the turning of its leaves
And read, to-day, to-morrow's hidden page.
And so its sadness, its uncertainty,
Becomes its joy, the spring of secret hope,
That what is dark may turn to brightness yet,
That what is good, will stay; and so we live.
I would not know the end lest I should fall
Despairing in the field—where, knowing not,
How valueless should seem the tinsel crown—
My arm might win some conquest that should be
A joy to others, though I knew it not;
Some needed help, which, else, I should forego.