Classic Poem

There are great tragedies in the country.
That torture the simple, kindly souls
And leave them broken, like gaunt forest trees
Felled by a tempest. They live on, dreaming
On Sundays of the “Sweet Fields of Eden,”
When their aching hearts find brief solace
In honest Christian doctrine that's certain
Of the “Last Day” and the Resurrection.
Through their faith they come close to a “Friend,”
And after all's said what more can there be
For men here or in the hereafter?
Thus they are comforted of gaping wounds;
Time is kind, the vine of Forgetfulness
Covers the barren soil of their minds.

It is well with these; one can understand
And see growth and great renunciation.
The hopelessness is in the tragedy
Of those who are not fine enough to sorrow;
Who cannot feel repentance or regret;
Plastic only to the deep grained instinct
Of survival. There are many of these
Who are not wise enough to be sinners,
And the elemental forces of life
Pluck them up out of sport and play toss-ball,
And they pass through the game like clods of earth,
And fall untouched, unhurt, unawakened.