Classic Poem

A damsel stood upon the stage,
A stage-worn damsel she.
A critic sat and heard her sing,
A world-worn critic he.

“I'm saddest when I sing,” she sang,
A tear stood in her eye.
He sighed, the wretch, and murmured to
Himself: “And so am I.”

“I cannot sing the old songs,”
She sang. Sighed he—“'Tis true,
Two kinds of songs you cannot sing,
The old ones—and the new.”

“Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing
I'd give my eyes,” he hears.
“And I,” he murmured, “had you them,
Would give away my ears.”

“Had I the wings of any dove,”
She sang, “I would rejoice.”
He muttered: “You could make them from
The feathers in your voice.”