Classic Poem

Have pity, God, on one you cast down here
You granted some delight, more often care.
He weeps — for he is ever on the move —
Sometimes to greet, sometimes to part from love.
Always his enemy, the treacherous night
Has hoodwinked him, depriving him of light
And given him a bitter draught to drain
A draught of black despair time and again
For forty years he's suffered this distress
Still hurled from wilderness to wilderness.