Classic Poem

It seems so strange to watch the crowd
That gathers on some festal day,
To mark the lowly and the proud,
Aglow with mirth, and think that they
Are but a throng of masquers gay.
'Tis true that some show signs of grief;
Yon sad-eyed widow wears her weeds;
Yon mother mourns her fallen leaf,
And tells you how her bosom bleeds.

Yon soldier, battered in the wars,
Moving with painful step, and slow,
Limps proudly, proudly wears his scars; —
Such hurts as these all men may know
But deeper sorrow, keener throes,
Are hidden by a careless smile,
And laughter on the lips the while
The heart is torn and no one knows,

The pity of this earthly life
Is, that the deepest heartaches lie
Beyond the reach of sympathy;
The sorest wounds are got in strife
Waged in the dark, where none may see,
Oft hiding still the rankling knife
That tortures with slow misery,

I see my neighbor come and go
With airy speech and smiling lip;
I call him gay — I little know
What unseen hand, with deadly grip
Clutches his heart, what tortures slow
Wears out his life, while borne alone,
As ceaseless dropping wears a stone.

If floods destroy, if fires consume,
Full hands reach out in charity;
Across misfortune's darkest gloom
Shine kindly rays of sympathy;
If a friend dies a tolling bell
May to the world the story tell.
But deeper griefs than these there be —

The death's head in the closet hid
Is ghastlier than the still white face,
Or the cold hands, in waxen grace
Lying beneath the coffin lid.
A living woe from mortal eyes
Is curtained close; the direst strife
Is in the breast — And herein lies
The pity of this earthly life.