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Robert Laurence Binyon - History
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Time has stored all, but keeps his chronicle
 In secret, beyond all our probe or gauge.
 There flows the human story, vast and full;
 And here a muddy trickle smears the page.

 The things our hearts remember make a sound
 So faint; so loud the menace and applause.
 The gleaners come, with eyes upon the ground
 After Oblivion`s harvest, picking straws.

 What is man, if this only has told his tale,
 For whom ruin and blunder mark the years,
 Whom continent--shadowing conquerors regale
 To surfeiting, with glory of blood and tears?

 He flaunts his folly and woe in a proud dress:
 But writes no history of his happiness.
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