Classic Poem

Men choose a crystal goblet filled with wine,
That thirst and sense of beauty in all haste
May be indulged; but soon the wine is spilled
Or proves unpleasant to the sated taste;
The crystal chasteness of the goblet slow
Grows dimmer, and thus beauty is a loss;
And man full weary, to the wayside flings
That wealth of pleasure which has turned to dross,
Close hugs a wooden bowl — no substitute
For grace and radiance — and with pleading eyes,
Begs his Creator humbly to send down
One drop of water from the plenteous skies;
God grants the boon, man drinks and is content.

Most men refuse to tread on this or that,
In their attempts to climb where angels are;
Some fain would walk on roses, some on down,
Some reach on waves of light the nearest star;
But from the devious modes that they devise,
One has adjusted been to ev'ry need;
The fiat born of Wisdom goeth forth,
And man must reck not that his feet will bleed;
Nor dare to say in lofty arrogance,
" Walk thou in that path, I will walk in this! "
For he who would attain where angels bathe
Their willing souls in affluence of bliss,
Must climb on Patience ' ladder up to God.