Classic Poem

Dismounted, o'er wine we had said our last say;
Then I whisper, — Dear friend, tell me whither away —
— Alas! — he replied, — I am sick of life's ills
— And I long for repose on the slumbering hills
— But oh seek not to pierce where my footsteps may stray:
— The white clouds will soothe me for ever and ay —