Classic Poem

I tried to build Perfection with my hands
And failed.
Then with my will's most strict commands,
And naught availed.
What shall he gain but some poor miser's pelf,
Who thinks for ever of his silly self?
Then to the Stars I flung my trust,
Scorning the menace of my coward dust;
Freed from my little will's control
To a good purpose marched my soul;
In nameless, shapeless God found I my rest,
Though for my solace I built God a breast.