Classic Poem

When the end comes, and like a tired child,
I fall beside the long highway of Time,
Nor strive the last, rough, upward range to climb—
O Father, hold me not unreconciled!
Let me not then remember all the wild
And thorny ways through which my wounded feet
So long have toiled; but rather what beguiled
My way of pain, and made it ofttimes sweet
With laughter of glad streams, and pastures green,
And fragrant forest pathways opening wide
On dewy meadows sparkling in the sun,
Like gleams of Paradise in dreams foreseen!—
So shall my slumber be unterrified,
And my awaking find the journey done.