Classic Poem

I

Happy who saith: Enough.
Soft is Aurora's touch that breaks his slumber;
His clasped hands never prayed
For life, ne'er roamed his shade;
He lives with time, nor are the sands that number
His golden minutes rough.

II

How bountiful is Love!
When hope is fled, he comes with wings of blessing:
His pleasure is to give
His all, and poor to live;
But he grows rich, the treasure twice possessing
Himself he robbeth of.