Classic Poem

Without friends, and without money,
Without power, without fame,
Earth is but a bitter garden;
Life is but a losing game:
There 's a heart within my bosom,
(Ah, I know it, by its pain,)
Swiftness should be in my sinews,
And within my head,—a brain.

Tell me how, with these good servants,
Song of mine, how we may fare;
We have but a paltry lodging,
'Neath this hedge, in open air.
Fain would I behold a dinner;
But such visions now are rare:
Peace! I see the hawthorn banquet:
Come; we'll join the sparrows there.

What avail are sages,—muses,
If they bring not comforts nigh?
Ha! they force me upwards—onwards—
Through the clouds—beyond the sky—
Comets—planets—whirl around me—
Storms and rains are rushing by,—
Orb on orb gives out its music,—
I am breathless—God, I die!