Classic Poem

They clasped their hands for weal or woe,
And went together down the road,
The road that led, they knew not whither,
They did not know what winds would blow,
Nor where the shining rivers flowed,
Nor when the sweetest flowers would wither.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
For love's dear sake their hearts were brave,
And years went onward, slowly creeping,
Joy was their friend. With face aglow,
She often came to them, and gave
Some priceless pearl into their keeping.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
Together they outwatched the moon
In many a solemn tryst with sorrow.
By wayside graves their tears would flow,
And crossing many a lonesome dune,
They, each from each, some hope would borrow.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
And faith was strong, and could not fail,
Though doubts, like evil birds, were flying,
" Our love shall last, " they whispered low;
And bent their heads to meet the gale,
Which left its wrecks around them lying.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
More tender grew their words and ways,
Their fingers now were feebly clinging;
They journeyed slowly and more slow,
For strange, new stars began to blaze,
And all the evening bells were ringing.

They clasped their hands for weal or woe,
And went together down the road,
The road that led, they knew not whither,
They did not know what winds would blow,
Nor where the shining rivers flowed,
Nor when the sweetest flowers would wither.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
For love's dear sake their hearts were brave,
And years went onward, slowly creeping,
Joy was their friend. With face aglow,
She often came to them, and gave
Some priceless pearl into their keeping.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
Together they outwatched the moon
In many a solemn tryst with sorrow.
By wayside graves their tears would flow,
And crossing many a lonesome dune,
They, each from each, some hope would borrow.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
And faith was strong, and could not fail,
Though doubts, like evil birds, were flying,
" Our love shall last, " they whispered low;
And bent their heads to meet the gale,
Which left its wrecks around them lying.

Their hands were clasped for weal or woe,
More tender grew their words and ways,
Their fingers now were feebly clinging;
They journeyed slowly and more slow,
For strange, new stars began to blaze,
And all the evening bells were ringing.