Classic Poem

To those who have known my mad life's troubles
I leave these lines — 'tis all I have to leave
Save faults and follies; the dreams and bubbles
Of my young life; and O I grieve
In tears of blood I could not worthier weave.

True, 'tis a farewell piece but poorly spoken,
It is an adieu song but harshly sung;
For the heart beats dull and the harp is broken,
And the hand that o'er the keys is flung
Is nerveless now, and the chords unstrung.

The round red sun is set for me for ever,
And nebulous darkness is rolling from afar;
And I stand adown by death's dark river
Calmly and alone, for the thoughts that war
Have died, or dimly burn, as yon sweet star.

'Tis well I stand by the rushing river,
Up to my knees in the blackened tide;
The sounding waters will drown for ever
The critic's jeers and paynim pride, —
And reviews are not ferried to the other side.

So life is but a day of weary fretting
As a sickly babe for its mother gone;
And I fold my hands, only this regretting:
That I have writ no thought, or thing, not one,
That lives, or earns a cross or cryptic stone.