Classic Poem

If our poor life be less than but a day
In the eternal, if the year in his round
Irrevocably chase our days away,
If all things born be perishable found;

What dream'st thou, O my soul, in prison bound?
Why with this earth's dark day art thou content,
If to fly out to other, dearer ground,
Thou hast upon thy back thy wing well penned?

There is that goal to which thy vows ascend;
There the repose for which the whole world sighs;
There love is; there all pleasures fitly blend;
There, o my soul, led to the highest skies,

Thou may'st the idea of that beauty meet
Which in this world I greet and find most sweet.