Classic Poem

Here is strength, here,
In my own breast:
If I go whining to the Earth and the stars,
And beseech help of a sweet invisible one in the air about me,
Let me also go where I belong:
Among children and invalids.

Off with this habit of sickness!
Let me puff out my cheeks and blow away the vapors of sadness and downheartedness!
The erect pride shall beget a manner of triumph:
And the bugle of that manner shall call out the regiments of my tented soul.