Classic Poem

When thou didst try to climb that arduous hill
That rises steeply from thy dear abode,
Because thou wert so feeble and so ill
Thou turnedst back from that long upward road;
And there were things, in that sad hour, that shew'd
How griev'd thou wert to find thyself so weak,
For bitter tears upon thy bosom flow'd,
Although thou wert too feeble, then, to speak.
I know thy gentle soul is bound for heaven: —
But, in some future illness, should it yearn
From this terrestrial vale to take its flight,
Thus may it be, that ere it may be riven
From that sweet form, it may again return,
Still, still, to give this lower world delight.