Classic Poem

The world, my little worried soul,
Lies far too heavily tonight.
How are we wise to let it roll
Filling our dreams with fright?

Sleep, my little brooder, sleep.
The month is quarreling with the town.
Tomorrow morning you may sweep
The scraps of thunder down.

The Earth is but a foundling, too,
That Heaven will not stoop to save.
Let no bright riddles trouble you;
The little world is brave;

And knows no more than you do, dear,
Which star went wandering one night
And found another planet near,
As lonely and as light.

The world has been a child astray
Much longer fatherless than you.
Cover your little wings away:
There's nothing else to do,
There's nothing else to do.