Classic Poem

My ships may come in from the sea,
Laden with wealth untold,
And bringing it all to me—
Spices, and pearls, and gold,
In many a rich ingot—
But—probably not.

The castles I build in Spain,
That a breath so topples o'er,
And which daily I rear again,
May stand, and fall no more—
By destroying winds forgot—
But—probably not.

I may find the shackles of care
That fetter my aching wing,
While I long to cleave the air,
And wildly to soar and sing,
Lifted from off my lot—
But—probably not.

The heights to which I aspire—
I may reach them by and by;
And that which I most desire—
I may clasp it before I die,
With the longing and pain forgot—
But—probably not.

I may find on life's battle field,
Ere the going down of the sun,
A place to lay down my shield,
With the struggle over and done—
Some peaceful and sheltered spot—
But—probably not.

I may find how, without loss,
I can lay my burdens down;
Some way to elude the cross,
And yet to deserve the crown
Which falls to the conqueror's lot—
But—probably not.