Classic Poem

Ever straining up the slope
Of ever-lengthening seas,
While just beyond us, whispers Hope,
Lie shores of golden ease;

Ever panting on the brink
Of heights that we but climb
To gaze on loftier heights, which sink
Still beneath more sublime;—

Soon or late the spent ship goes
To deeps below the storm;
Soon or late the blinding snows
Enwrap the traveller's form;

And then the placid stars, at rest
From pity as from pain,
Look down on wave and mountain crest
Where newer strugglers strain.