Classic Poem

Each little day
That slips away
And finds for thee no pleasure,
That steals along
Without a song,
Is just a wasted treasure.

The sands that pass
Through the hour glass
And find thee in repining,
Mark the lost hours.
The freshest flowers
Blow when the sun is shining.

Thou shalt not grope
For the lost hope
Through darkness dim, unending.
Ne'er vain regret
Succeeded yet
A broken thread in mending.

The chance that's lost,
Let not the cost
Be flowing tears and sighing,
When countless more
From life's vast store
Are to be had for trying.

So put away
Thy cares today,
And cease thy fate reviling;
For Chance eludes
The soul that broods,
And courts the soul that's smiling.