Classic Poem

Chide, chide no more away
The fleeting daughters of the day,
Nor with impatient thoughts out-run
The lasie Sun,
Or think the houres do move too slow;
Delay is kind,
And we too soon shall find
That which we seek, yet fear to know.

The mystick dark decrees
Unfold not of the Destinies,
Nor boldly seek to antedate
The laws of Fate,
Thy anxious search awhile forbeare,
Suppresse thy haste,
And know that Time at last
Will crowne thy hope, or fix thy fear.