Classic Poem

Ma vocation.

Plain, sorry, and sickly,
Adrift on this ball,
Trodden down by the masses
Because I'm so small,
To my lips when a murmur
Will touchingly spring,
God whispers me kindly,
" Sing, little one, sing! "

Splashed with mud by the wheel,
As Wealth passes in state,
I the insolence feel
Of the rich and the great:
Nay, nothing wards off
The big look, or its sting;
God whispers me kindly,
" Sing, little one, sing! "

Shrinking back from the ills
That the idler must face,
Crawling am I, enchained
To a beggarly place
Freedom fondly I prize,
But to food I must cling;
God whispers me kindly,
" Sing, little one, sing! "

Love, himself, my distress
Deigned of old to make light;
But with youth, I confess,
That he's taking his flight
Beauty moves me — my sighs
To the winds I may fling:
God whispers me kindly,
" Sing, little one, sing! "

Then to sing, or I'm wrong,
Here below is my lot:
All, who smile at my song,
Will love me — will they not?
Good fellows around me —
Good wine let them bring —
God whispers me kindly,
" Sing, little one, sing! "