Classic Poem

If I could but escape life's fretting ills,
Such as attend the daily earn of bread,
And such as summon anxious looks ahead,
And such when one with indignation fills—
If I could but shut out the care that kills
My little leisure, and with stealthy tread
Comes in the night and sits beside my bed—
Well—then—what then? Would sunset on the hills
Administer a more divine repose
Or dawn distil elixir for my veins?
There is no answer, for no being knows
What life would be without consuming pains.
But He who shapes the beauty of the rose,
And sheds its leaves, is Wisdom—and He reigns.