William M’Kinley

The truly great fail not.
A brutal blow may rend the heart,
May break apart the strong grown shuck;
But through the wound, and o’er upstart
Fair stock of immortality.

The truly good fall not.
Men mourn them fallen, as to nought.
Decayed, like Autumn’s stricken grain
E’er harvest time. But, somehow brought
From broken clod; goodness revives.

The truly brave fear not.
Though tempests rage in other breasts
Where envyings and malice sway;
Alike the far hung planet, rests
Serene the mission hallowed soul.

The true immortal are.
They live in all, through all; and o’er
A thousand falls, and tens of deaths.
In either rarer than of earth they soar
E’en while, like wearied gull, ’long shore.

The true o’er present bide,
Though mourned and farewelled as if dead
Forever. Cloud the sun may shade
Awhile, but none can smite his face
That shines amidst the stars’ embrace.