Classic Poem

How shall it seem to thee when thou art old?
When this, the dust in which I wrote my name,
And I in memory's twilight lost and cold
Have grown too unremembered to defame?

Perchance that when thine eyes are dull with drouth,
Thy beauty haggard, thou shalt think on me
And cry, “His name is ashes in the mouth!
His name I speak in dying misery.”

Perchance thy rage shall sob its full despair:
“He was more masterful than Time and fell,
Weak in the world, to lie despised and bare—
In death a chord, in life a broken bell.”

Or shall thy pride be mightier and say:
“He fought and failed and—Peace! the scorn was best!
With his forgotten deeds the years are gray,
And now his brow I crowned is fallen to rest.”

My heart instructs me it shall seem to thee
In no such wise; thy lips may praise or blame
And leave the heart its loving—thou to me,
Thy cheek that withers, my forgotten name.