Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

The Warriors That Fought For Their Country, And Bled, Have Sunk To Their Rest; The Damp Earth Is Their Bed; No Stone Tells The Place Where Their Ashes Repose, Nor Points Out The Spot From The Graves Of Their Foes. They Died In Their Glory, Surrounded By Fame, And Victory's Loud Trump Their Death Did Proclaim; They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.

I Venerate Old Age; And I Love Not The Man Who Can Look Without Emotion Upon The Sunset Of Life, When The Dusk Of Evening Begins To Gather Over The Watery Eye, And The Shadows Of Twilight Grow Broader And Deeper Upon The Understanding.