Classic Poem

O sigh not so, my fond and faithful Wife,
In sad remembrance, or in boding fear:
This is not Life, this phantasm Type of Life,
What is there to rejoice or mourn for here?

Be it, no wealth, nor fame, nor post is ours,
Small Blessedness for infinite Desire:
But has the King his wish in Windsor's Towers?
Or but the common lot: “meat, clothes, and fire”?

Lone stands our Home amid the sullen moor,
Its threshold by few friendly feet betrod;
Yet we are here, we Two, still true, tho' poor,
And this too is THE WORLD—the “City of God”!

O'erhangs us not th' Infinitude of Sky,
Where all the starry Lights revolve and shine?
Does not that Universe within us lie,
And move,—its maker, or itself divine?

And we, my Love, life's waking Dream once done
Shall sleep (to wondrous Lands) on other's breast,
And all we loved and toiled for, one by one,
Shall join us there, and wearied be at rest!

Then sigh not so, my fond and faithful Wife,
But striving well, have hope, be of good cheer;
Not Rest but worthy Labour is the soul of Life;
Not that, but this, is to be look'd and wish'd for here.