Classic Poem

You tell me that the world is fair, in spite
Of the old fall; and that I should not turn
So to the grave, and let my spirit yearn
After the quiet of the long last night.
Have I then shut mine eyes against the light,
Grief-deafened lest my spirit should discern?
Yet how could I keep silence when I burn?
And who can give me comfort?—hear the right.
Have patience with the weak and sick at heart:
Bind up the wounded with a tender touch.
Comfort the sad, tear-blinded as they go:—
For tho' I failed to choose the better part,
Were it a less unutterable woe
If we should come to love this world too much?—