Classic Poem

To spend unsolaced years of pain
Again again and yet again
In turning o'er in heart and brain
The riddle of our being here;
To gather facts from far and near,
Upon the mind to keep them clear,
And thinking more may yet appear,
Unto one's latest breath to fear
The premature result to draw—
Is this the purpose and high law
And object of our being here?

To doubt not if it's good or not
But cheerfully accept our lot
And get whatever may be got
And gained out of our being here;
To get our pleasures while we may
We must set us to obey
And while today is called today,
Be it work or play where'er we're found,
To join in what goes on around,—
What else, in sense and reason's mind,
Can be the good of being here?

Ah one is sad, and one is vain
Poor pleasure one and one much pain—
Both ways there seems but little gain
Or benefit in being here;
If go we might and go we could,
I think we ought and think we should,
Yet as we can't whate'er we would
We can't but think there is some good
However little understood
In having been and being here.