Classic Poem

I strive to keep me in the sun;
I pick no quarrel with the years,
Nor with the Fates, not even the one
That holds the shears.

I take occasion by the hand;
I'm not too nice 'twixt weed and flower;
I do not stay to understand;
I take mine hour.

The time is short enough at best.
I push right onward while I may;
I open to the winds my breast,
And walk the way.

A kind heart greets me here and there;
I hide from it my doubts and fears.
I trudge, and say the path is fair
Along the years.