Classic Poem

Ask me not, my little Lucy,
What the gods may give to me,
Nor ought you be glad could you see
What your future's going to be.

Better far to bear the blowy
Breezes, come they slow or fast.
Jove may give us many snowy
Winters; this may be the last.

Wisdom, Lucy. Take the present!
Take the treasure of to-day!
Even as I write these pleasant
Rhymes, this evening slips away.