Classic Poem

I give thee sorrow, and I give thee pain:
'Tis all the troubled singer has to give!
This, this is all my guerdon while I live, —
And, now and then, the pleasure of a strain.
Not more can I bestow while I remain
On earth an outcast and a wayfarer,
With all the night's harsh dewdrops in my hair; —
This scant reward and piteous thou shalt gain.

But after death there comes my time of pleasure
When I may crown thee in more ample measure, —
Fill up thy coronet with golden bars: —
First friendship through the agony of earth;
Then heaven and close-bound hearts that sing for mirth!
First sorrow; then a crown of many stars!