Classic Poem

I know not whose the words,
Nor the maker of their music;
In my sorrow-laden heart
The aroma of its pathetic art
Like the soothing breath of dream.

Joy borrows its charm from sorrow;
Sorrow feverish with the color of joy;
An opaque crystal, a stone on life's string
Made of music that doth ring
As the stars on the lyre of night.

A pain it is, made perfect;
A call made clear by the voice of peace;
A silver stream of song
Darkened, yet floweth on and on
Between black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home.