Classic Poem

'Tis man alone, the plaything of his fears,
Blown by the winds of fickle fate forever,
Whose mocking destiny all high endeavor
Turns but to nothing through the fruitless years;
'Tis man, whose path is blinded by his tears,
Who seeketh always, and who findeth never,
And who from all he loves sad death will sever;
'Tis he upon whose lips the smile appears;

'Tis he alone who laughs who also cries,—
Laughs in the face of fate and grief and death!
“Read me the strange enigma!” thus I crave.
Why, but because he knows the appearance lies,
And storms of evil rage with futile breath?
The smile is sunshine from beyond the grave.