Classic Poem

A POET prayed, and the answer came —
" Thou shalt sing, and thy song shall bring thee fame
But this must thou give for thy silver tongue
Thrice three sorrows for each new song."

The poet was young and the world all bloom —
" Give me the song, let the sorrows come."

And so it befell that his boyhood's pain
Was thrice more bitter and thrice again,
But his tears were pearls and his sobs were song
And the solace great if the sorrow long

Then youth with its splendid moon i' the sky
And its wonder-maiden and love, drew nigh,
And the heart of the poet grew so glad
He forgot his song in the joy he had
But the maiden died — then he thought to die
But his song awoke him, and up in the sky,
For each little shining tear he shed,
He set a great shining star instead —
His singing ended, his tears were dry.

Then years went by, and he took a wife,
So dear she stood him in place of life,
And, as the blossoms come to the tree,
So came a little babe to be
But the blossom withered in springtime frost,
And the poet sang of the thing they lost —
— " But ah, my wife, had they taken thee!"

Death heard the song, and he came one night,
And the wife lay dead in the morning light
Now, O poet, what comfort now?
Dost thou not weep for thy boyish vow?
Yea, the poet bowed his stricken head —
— " Now let me die, for my life is dead."

Yet, as days wore on, little leaf by leaf
Budded once more on the tree of grief,
And note by note the accustomed song
Rose, as of old, more deep, more strong;
Though something told to the listening ears
That it bubbled up from a fount of tears.

One more sorrow remained untried:
God took back his song — then the poet died