Gleaners of Fame

Hearken not, friend, for the resounding din 
That did the Poet's verses once acclaim: 
We are but gleaners in the field of fame, 
Whence the main harvest hath been gathered in. 
The sheaves of glory you are fain to win, 
Long since were stored round many a household name, 
The reapers of the Past, who timely came, 
And brought to end what none can now begin. 
Yet, in the stubbles of renown, 'tis right 
To stoop and gather the remaining ears, 
And carry homeward in the waning light 
What hath been left us by our happier peers; 
So that, befall what may, we be not quite 
Famished of honour in the far-off years.