Classic Poem

He who hath made it will mend it,
He who began it must end it —
Leave it to Him.
Weary and poor thou art,
Weak of purpose and frail in heart —
Thy hopes are vague and dim.
Stretch forth a hand and try
If thou canst touch the sky;
Lift up thine eyes and see
How far 'tis over thee —
Over all reach!
Quit then — the hour is late —
Leave unto Him, to fate;
Great may take care of great,
Each star of each!

Those books, my friend, you purchased yester eve,
Though treating faithfully a certain art,
Contain not that you fondly now believe:
(Brother, a little while — and we depart!)

This habitation by the mere and stream,
For wood-shade peace, self-promised long ago,
Will not afford the rest of which you dream:
(Come, lock up house, my friend, and leave it so!)

The wealth which took you hand in hand with sin —
When you stand knocking at a certain gate,
Will forge no golden key to let you in:
(Make haste, one further step, the hour is late!)

Now, well-away! What treasures some things were —
Ah, woe is mine! — which soon are utter dross:
(Toll slowly! — Stifle the unseemly stir —
A horror falls upon the house of loss!)
Be still, pale prophets of disaster, yet
In pace, in idipsum, dormiet!