Classic Poem

To sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and trees,
And all the rare things of the summer-tide,
When joy's a-wing upon the playful breeze,
And every prospect's smiling as a bride —
Aye, that were sweet! All worthy themes for song.
Each speaks the bounty of a lavish earth —
The blessings rare that rightly do belong
To them that seek the treasuries of mirth.

Yet would I pause the while and seek a theme
In ways less smiling than the country-side.
In far-off scenes of stress I sometimes seem
To find a voice that will not be denied —
A voice that mid the arid scenes of woe
Still lifts itself on high in notes of cheer
Hath for my soul a richer, deeper glow
Than happy bird-notes in the morning clear.

Who sings amid the joyous fields of peace
Where all is sweet, and fresh, and lushly green,
But gives an inward happiness release,
And adds new glories to a gloried scene;
But he whose song springs forth from care and strife,
Like an oasis in some desert plain,
His is the song that gives the hopeless life,
And thrills with living joy the heart of pain!