Classic Poem

I put on my new suit, the wind and fire
Observing this, maliciously conspire
And then the wind, just for a merry lark,
Picks up from the train smoke one small spark,
A little spark, hot from the engine's coal,
And casts it on my suit and burns a hole
In that fine serge in which I took such pride
And like a tunnel's entrance it gaped wide.
Pointing this out to God I thus made free:
" You liberally clothe the forest tree
Yet you allow my new suit to be burned
If I had been a bough, when spring returned,
You would renew me. But I'll have to sweat
And moil and toil another suit to get. "