Classic Poem

I.

The worm that crawls about our way,
And dies beneath our feet,
Is happy in its little day,
And finds existence sweet.

II.

The brutes which perish too enjoy
A short but happy reign,
Delight unmingled with alloy,
And pleasure free from pain.

III.

The winged tenants of the air
On pleasure's pinions borne,
Live thoughtless and devoid of care,
But man was made to mourn.

IV.

His infancy is weak and vain,
His youth the passions rend,
His prime of life is care and pain,
And death, cold death, his end.

V.

The empty blast of noisy air
Which sweeps the valleys o'er,
Rages and swells a moment there,
And then is heard no more.

VI.

Such is the life of man, a blast
Unmeaning and forlorn,
Which but proclaims this truth at last,
That man was made to mourn.