Only declare me loser when I’m dead,
But not by a mere thought of what I seem
Nor the dumbness that my detractors deem,
The unjustly compiled and then misread.
Say not I have failed as you hear it said
Whereas you make not the fortunes that beam.
Life does turn, and mine is carved from a dream
Wherein delight is bound by joyous thread.
I will not stand and let me fade with time,
I will not sleep and let the darkness lead,
No matter the stage, no matter the date;
My pain is dead and the morn is sublime,
The best is to come, a springtime ahead,
A golden harvest when all else is late.