Classic Poem

Happy he
Who, to sweet home retired,
Shuns glory so admired,
And to himself lives free.
Whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies
Falls down with foul disgrace before he rise.


Let who will
The active life commend,
And all his travels bend
Earth with his fame to fill:
Such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death,
Which life maintained by others' idle breath.


My delights,
To dearest home confined,
Shall there make good my mind,
Not awed with Fortune's spites:
High trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honours fell,
When lowly plants long time in safety dwell.


All I can
My worldly strife shall be
They one day say of me:
‘He died a good old man.’
On his sad soul a heavy burden lies
Who, known to all, unknown to himself dies.