Classic Poem

You say, O Sage, when weather-checked,
‘I have been favoured so
With cloudless skies, I must expect
This dash of rain or snow.’

‘Since health has been my lot,’ you say,
‘So many months of late,
I must not chafe that one short day
Of sickness mars my state.’

You say, ‘Such bliss has been my share
From Love's unbroken smile,
It is but reason I should bear
A cross therein awhile.’

And thus you do not count upon
Continuance of joy;
But, when at ease, expect anon
A burden of annoy.

But, Sage—this Earth—why not a place
Where no reprisals reign,
Where never a spell of pleasantness
Makes reasonable a pain?