Classic Poem

Gray wanderer in a homeless world,
Poor pilgrim to a dusty bier;
On Time's great cycle darkly hurled
From year to year:
See in the sky these words unfurled.
“Thy home is here!”

Pale mourner, whose quick tears reveal
Thy weight of sorrow but begun;
Not long thy burdened soul shall reel
Beneath the sun;
A few swift circles of the wheel,
And all is done

Though galled with fetters ye have lain,
To vulture hopes and fears a prey;
Oh, moan not o'er your ceaseless pain
Or slow decay;
For know, the soul thus files its chain
And breaks away.