Poetry Archives

Watchword sublime of Rome’s imperial sage,
Tersest of synonyms for self-control,
Paramount precept of the Stoic’s age,
Noblest of mottoes for the lofty soul,—
Would thou wert writ in characters of light,
At every turn to greet my reverent gaze,
And bid me face life’s evils, calm, upright,
Unspoiled alike by calumny or praise!
With all our science we are slaves of Fate;
What is to come we know not, cannot know;
Grief, suffering, death,—all touch us soon or late,
The master question, how to meet the blow.
Grant me, ye Gods, through life a steadfast eye,
And then, with equanimity, to die!