Classic Poem

Dear life is weariness to those
Who dig forever in the mire
Of self, or prank them in the shows
Of sense, or overfeed desire.

Your soul may be a quickening sun,
Which only thrives when it doth give;
Learn this, and you have partly won
Your life, and know what 't is to live.

Man's life is mostly but a branch
Torn dripping from a happy whole;
And sensuous balsam cannot stanch
Wounds that bleed inly from the soul.