Classic Poem

Nothing is lost: the drop of dew,
That trembles on the leaf or flower,
Is but exhaled, to fall anew
In summer's thunder-shower;
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day —
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.

So with our deeds, for good or ill,
They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will
To make them rife with good.
Like circles on a lake they go,
Ring within ring, and never stay.
Oh, that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway!