Classic Poem

  Arm. Why do we murmur? Are we poor? What's that?
'Tis but to breathe the air of industry;
To use sweet exercise from morn till eve,—
Earn health, content, rude strength, and appetite;
And, when Night draws her curtains round us, sleep
Through all the unbroken silence.
  Man . Thou 'rt a sweet comforter. 'Tis not so bad,
Methinks, to toil before the eye of day.
  Arm. If there be angels watching——
  Man. They shall see
I will dig lustily.
  Arm. They shall see, too,
We'll not repine, because we have no longer
A little leisure that we lost in dreams!