Classic Poem

These pretty little birds, see how
— They skip from bough to bough,
Tuning their sweet melodious notes
— Through warbling slender throats;
Not caring where they next shall feed
Upon what little worm or seed.

The glittering sparkles of the night
— How free they spend their light!
As nimble fairies on the ground
— They smile and dance the round;
Careless where 'tis they shall repair
That oil that makes them shine so fair.

The purling waters glide away
— And o'er blue pebbles stray;
They leave their fountains far behind,
— And thousand circles wind
About the flowery meadows' side,
Not doubting but to be supplied.

The trees do bud and bloom and grow
— And boast their plenty so,
As if they feared no pilfering hand,
— Or blustering wind's command,
Or nipping frosts should then undress.
And make their leavy glories less.

But man alone, poor foolish man!
— Who scarce lives out a span,
Is stocked with cares and idle fears
— For full one hundred years,
And, as if wanting grief, he must
Go take up sorrow upon trust.