Classic Poem

In the excellence of youth, what doubt is there?
The time of old age is full of defects.
In my heart fresh fresh wounds have I,
Well smeared in every wound is salt.
If joy come upon thee, be not rejoiced at it;
For close upon joy follows ever sorrow.
Make no complaints of other's wrongs or injuries,
For the greatest wronger of all is Destiny.
Not without design has trouble been created,
For trouble is the touchstone between the manly and the mean.
What of numerous luxuries, delights, and hardships?
Happy is he that is satisfied with a single piece of bread.
On some one else I bind my sword, and now turn Devotee:
Enough for me if on my shoulder I bear a staff.
If any one makes inquiry of wounded hearts,
Ruined is Khush-hal at the hands of his own tribe.