poem

My Triumph, Oct 16, 2026

0 votes
◆

The autumn-time has come;
On woods that dream of bloom,
And over purpling vines,
The low sun fainter shines.

The aster-flower is failing,
The hazel's gold is paling;
Yet overhead more near
The eternal stars appear!

And present gratitude
Insures the future's good,
And for the things I see
I trust the things to be;

That in the paths untrod,
And the long days of God,
My feet shall still be led,
My heart be comforted.

O living friends who love me!
O dear ones gone above me!
Careless of other fame,
I leave to you my name.

Hide it from idle praises,
Save it from evil phrases:
Why, when dear lips that spake it
Are dumb, should strangers wake it?

Let the thick curtain fall;
I better know than all
How little I have gained,
How vast the unattained.

Not by the page word-painted
Let life be banned or sainted:
Deeper than written scroll
The colors of the soul.

Sweeter than any sung
My songs that found no tongue;
Nobler than any fact
My wish that failed of act.

Others shall sing the song,
Others shall right the wrong, --
Finish what I begin,
And all I fail of win.

What matter, I or they?
Mine or another's day,
So the right word be said
And life the sweeter made?

Hail to the coming singers!
Hail to the brave light-bringers!
Forward I reach and share
All that they sing and dare.

The airs of heaven blow o'er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be, --
Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman
Diviner but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold!

The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labor;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand in hand with duty.

Ring, bells in unreared steeples,
The joy of unborn peoples!
Sound, trumpets far off blown,
Your triumph is my own!

Parcel and part of all,
I keep the festival,
Fore-reach the good to be,
And share the victory.

I feel the earth move sunward,
I join the great march onward,
And take, by faith, while living,
My freehold of thanksgiving.

◆

Comments

  1. Loading comments…
📖 About this poem

Whittier wrote this in his later years, and it reads like a quiet settling of accounts with life. Autumn becomes the frame for aging: flowers fade, but stars show clearer overhead, and that small shift in attention carries the whole poem's argument. He isn't anxious about legacy. He asks loved ones to let his name fade rather than be picked over by strangers, trusting that "deeper than written scroll" lies the real measure of a life. The short rhymed couplets give it a steady, hymn-like pulse, fitting for a poet rooted in Quaker plainness. What lands today is the generosity near the end — he hands the unfinished work to future generations without bitterness, cheering "the coming singers" who will right what he couldn't. It's a gentle argument for humility, patience, and faith that goodness outlives any one person's effort or fame.

⚠ Sandbox · not production