Classic Poem

Hot with sorrow or with joy,
Poet, be thy singing;
Free as from the eye's deep well
Sudden tears come springing.

Hot with sorrow or with joy—
Joy comes rarely, poet,
In so pure a form that we
In our song may show it.

Sorrow's hand avails thee more,
Which in darkest hour
Wakes thy heart-strings into song,
Plucking there with power.

Sorrow's hand avails thee more.
Sight is blurred by laughter.
Sorrow weeps, and in her clasp
Holds the world thereafter.

All the depths of her own heart
Sorrow hath inspected.
She in others' eyes may now
See herself reflected.