Classic Poem

Give me thy song of sorrow;
Its 'plainings touch the heart,
First born of melancholy,
And not of mortal art:
It strengthens though it saddens,
A love-commission'd thing;
Oh! sorrow's song is holy,
And thus, I pray thee, sing!

Sing while the shadows deepen
Upon you hill whose brow
Wears still the flickering sunlight,
But whence 'tis flitting now;
Sing of the fading beauty,
Sing of the coming night,
And as our eyes grow tearful,
Methinks they must grow bright.

Let him who has not sorrow'd
With loss of things most dear,
Exult in music's triumph,
And joy in Hope's career;
But he who weeps the parting
That made each blessing brief,
Will seek from music only
The song that wakens grief.