Classic Poem

“Thou deem'st of nought but doleful grief,”
said then that maid; “why dost thou so?
Through din of dole for losses small
many a man oft loseth more
Rather shouldst thou cross thyself,
and praise aye God, in woe and weal;
anger avails thee not a cress;
who needs must bow, be not so bold;
for though thou dance as any doe,
chafe and cry in fiercest ire,
since, to or fro, no way thou mak'st,
thou must abide what He shall deem.