Classic Poem

C. P. G

M Y noble friend is dead,
And in his narrow bed
The earth doth gently rest
Upon his gentle breast.

And still the sun doth pour
Its brightness as before;
And still in every place
The spring comes on apace;
And still the sweet flowers blow,
The flowers he cared for so;
And still the wee birds sing,
At rest or on the wing.

“O cruel sun,” I said,
“To, shine when he is dead;
O cruel spring, to come
When his dear lips are dumb;
O cruel flowers, to bloom
When he is in the tomb;
O cruel birds, to sing,
And he not listening!”

Then from an inner sky
I heard a soft reply:
“Doth any day go by
And not some loved one die,
Though all unknown to thee,
As dear as thine could be?
Not thou alone dost cry
For nature's sympathy.
To every mourning heart
The sunshine brings a smart,
The spring seems all too gay,
The flowers are wished away,
The birds' songs in the trees
Are subtle mockeries.

“If grief could have its will,
All days were dark and chill.
The spring would never come;
The flowers would never bloom;
The birds would never sing,
At rest or on the wing.

“Rest, troubled spirit, rest:
God knoweth what is best.

“The sunshine thou dost chide
Hath healing in its tide;
The spring that comes apace
Shall touch thee with its grace;
The flowers their sweet perfume
Shall shed upon his tomb;
The birds in woodlands dim
Shall make lament for him;
And thou some day shalt see
That it was best for thee
That all thy sorrow was so strangely blent
With nature's harmony of full content.”