Classic Poem

Time still moves on, with noiseless pace,
And we are loiterers by the way;
Few win and many lose the race,
For which they struggle, day by day;
And even when the goal is gained,
How seldom worth the toil it seems!
How lightly valued, when obtained,
The prize that flattering Hope esteems!

Submissive to the winds of chance,
We toss on Life's inconstant sea:
This billow may our bark advance,
And that may leave it on the lee;
This coast, which rises fair to view,
May be thick set with rocky mail,
And that, which beetles o'er the blue,
Be safest for the shattered sail.

The cloud that, like a little hand,
Slow lingers when the morning shines,
Expands its volume o'er the land,
Dark as a forest-sea of pines;
While that, which casts a vapory screen
Before the azure realm of day,
Rolls upward from the lowland scene,
And from the mountain-tops away.

Oh, fond deceit! to think the flight
Of time will lead to pleasures strange,
And ever bring some new delight,
To minds that strive and sigh for change.
Within ourselves the secret lies,
Let seasons vary as they will;
Our hearts would murmur, though our skies
Were bright as those of Eden still!