Classic Poem

At morn the flowers from under Night's dull pall
Peep laughing; their reflecting dew-drops bear
Bright tiny suns, far twinkling through the air.
But some I've seen, on whom, overshadowed all
By an old tower, no ray of light did fall;
I pitied them — so cheerless sad they were.
I saw those smiling flowers in noon's hot glare,
Sun-struck, and faint; while under the stern wall,
Fresh as at morn the shaded roses grew,
The dew yet in their bosoms. Thus when come
Deep sorrows o'er us, why should we upbraid!
His hand o'ershadows us. The friendly shade
Shuts out the world's bright glare, and the soft dew
Of pure religion finds the soul its home.