Classic Poem

Oft must we feel to what frail tenement
All is entrusted that we fondly prize.
What is most precious to our heart and eyes
Is not our freehold, is not giv'n but lent.
We need not hold that Powers maleficent
With conscious purpose break our dearest ties,
And lives, else rich, thus blight and pauperise—
Enough, that we are thralls of accident.
While all our prospect looks serene and fair,
The heavens grow dark, and in a single day
We lose what cost the toil of years to gain.
Yet droop not therefore; nought can bar the way
That leads our souls o'er rugged tracts or plain
Up to diviner heights and purer air.