Classic Poem

I sadly unsorrowful looked
At the children in a lane,
Which once my soul has sought
To play a thought for gain.

The peasant mildly found,
By the gate, after light,
Whose idle state seemed mourned
For the shore that tarries sight.

But the clad of Nature's boast.
With its heaven-hanging eye
Is seen day by day
From the lust which carries it by.

The passion lent its depth,
Which the spirit works alone
With the unsorrowed glance,
Weeps his phantom boon.