Classic Poem

The Gods, being merry, and having for a whim
Created Man to make a jest of him,
And taken counsel of their hearts how best
To crown with a pure perfectness the jest,
Set him fast-anchored shiplike mid the foam
Of the Infinite Seas he else had joyed to roam.

There doth he bear, while tempest round him flits,
The laughter of the great, high, heavenly Wits;
And there, though he persuades himself thaThe
Is well contented with captivity,
He dreams of the isles he never hath espied,
And the far oceans to his sails denied.