Classic Poem

The heaven and earth they call so great,
For me are mickle small;
The sun and moon they call so bright,
For me ne'er shine at all.

Are all men sad, or only I?
And what have I obtained, —
What good the gift of mortal life,
That prize so rarely gained,

If naught my chilly back protects
But one thin grass-cloth coat,
In tatters hanging like the weeds
That on the billows float, —

If here in smoke-stained, darksome hut,
Upon the bare cold ground,
I make my wretched bed of straw,
And hear the mournful sound, —

Hear how mine aged parents groan,
And wife and children cry,
Father and mother, children, wife,
Huddling in misery, —

If in the rice-pan, nigh forgot,
The spider hangs its nest,
And from the hearth no smoke goes up
Where all is so unblest?

And now, to make our wail more deep,
That saying is proved true
Of " snipping what was short before " : —
Here comes to claim his due

The village provost, stick in hand,
He's shouting at the door; —
And can such pain and grief be all
Existence has in store?