Classic Poem

I pray thee do not cease to wring my heart,
But still unfold my every imperfection
God knows, each bosom has its weaker part,
Its half insane affliction.

Yea, all save thine! Thou, by a grand conceit,
Art on a faultless pinnacle of bleakness.
But rather would I in the lowly street
Be still akin to weakness.

Endeavour, recognizing its defeats,
Girds it afresh, and presses up and onward:
Endeavour with supposed perfection meets,
And soon its course is downward.

So, never cease to tell how much I err,
How much fall short of thy extoll'd achievement:
Admonishment be my encourager,
And failure no bereavement.