Classic Poem

I met thee when some kindred soul had fled,
And left thee in a world of toil and care;
And thou, bedight in sable robes, hadst laid
Aside the bright ones I had known thee wear;
And seemedst then, — although before too fair, —
More winning in the weeds of grief arrayed:
And, when thou smiledst on me, with an air
So soften'd by thy sadness for the dead,

How melting was the joy that thrill'd my soul.
Long be it ere the mourner's hue be worn
Again by thee, whose sorrow is my pain;

And long ere others in the sable stole
Be mourning for thee; for the friends that mourn
For one so dear, can seldom smile again.