Classic Poem

That man is wisest who accepteth his lot
Yet mends it where he can—glad if there grows;
Some lowly flower beside his lonely cot.
E'en while he plants and tends his Alpine rose.

Some good comes to us all. No poverty
But has some precious gift laid at its door.
We scorn it, call it small, what fools are we,
To spurn the less because it is not more!

There are some thirsty souls, all sick and faint
With longing for the cup that is denied.
Would they but stoop and drink, without complaint,
From the near stream, and so be satisfied.

There are some hungry hearts that well nigh break
With the dull soreness of mere emptiness.
To fill the void and sooth the weary ache
Let them but strive some other hearts to bless.

There are some idle hands that reach afar
For wilder mission, some great work of fame.
Would they but grapple life's daily war.
Reward awaits them, nobler than a name.

Oh, thirsty souls! Oh, hungry hearts and hands,
Weary with idleness! Take what you may
Of proffered good; accept life as it stands,
And make the most of its swift, fleeting day.