Classic Poem

Out of a desolate night
Into the pride of the court
Flooded with color and light,
A wandering singer was brought.

And there, at the foot of the throne —
A weary and pitiful thing
That begged for a crust or a bone —
He sang at the nod of the King.

The King and his courtiers are gone;
Clean gone out of mind is their fame;
The fields where their glory was won
Are only a date and a name.

The singer, alone of the throng
Lives on through the death of the years —
For men still remember his song
And sing it, with love and with tears.