Classic Poem

Grief's heavy hand hath swayed the lute;
'Tis henceforth mute:
Though pleasure woo, the strings no more respond
To touches light as fond,
Silenced as if by an enchanter's wand.

Do thou brace up each slackened chord,
Love, gentle lord;
Then shall the lute pour grateful melodies
On every breeze,
Strains that celestial choristers may please.