Classic Poem

When thou shalt put my name upon the tomb,
Write under it, “Here lies the weariest man
That ever struggled with a wayward ban,
The victim from his birth-hour to a doom
That made all nature war against his will;
Made profitless his toil, its fruits denied
To patient courage and ambition still;
His tasks decreed, his industry decried;
And left him weary of the sun, whose flight
Brought him the gloom without the peace of night.
His toilsome pathway ever was uphill,—
A hill forever growing,—still his draught
Was water in a sieve that could not fill.
And bitter was his cup, or drunk, or left unquaff'd.”