Classic Poem

Oh , how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind!
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing " Woe's me — Woe's me!"

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow love a something brings
That's sweet — even when we sigh " Woe 's me!"