Classic Poem

As small winding dells wrinkle down from the hills,
So wind in their bosoms the manybow'd rills;
As hither and thither the hill-ridges trend,
So round by their sides we can see the stream bend.
And where it may meet with an uprising ground,
And cannot climb over, it finds the way round.

However the brook may be driven awry
By hill or by dell that it bends itself by,
It aye finds the sea, whitherto it is bound.
And though in your lifeway some checks may be found
To ends that are worthy, you never will miss
Those ends or a glory in heavenly bliss.

And so, while you keep only good aims in sight,
Still hoping to reach them as straight as the light,
You find, unawares, at an unlucky time,
A hindrance too steep and too high to o'erclimb.
Ne'er hopeless turn back, but look well to your ground,
If you cannot get over you'll find the way round.