Classic Poem

One woe is past. Come what come will
Thus much is ended and made fast:
Two woes may overhang us still;
One woe is past.

As flowers when winter puffs its last
Wake in the vale, trail up the hill,
Nor wait for skies to overcast;

So meek souls rally from the chill
Of pain and fear and poisonous blast,
To lift their heads: come good, come ill,
One woe is past.