Classic Poem

My harp is hushed,
It will not sing to me;
The soft and pleasing song,
Its erstwhile song.
I take it down,
And softly draw my hands,
Across the strings, but still,
It does not answer to
My ling'ring touch.

My heart is sad,
Because my harp is mute;
For when it sang to me,
It thrilled my inmost soul,
And gave to me a joy,
I cannot tell.

It was my life,
When listening to its songs,
I bent an eager ear,
To catch its softest note,
Which none but me could hear —
'Twas but for me.

It sang to me,
To fit my ev'ry mood;
When I was sad and drear,
Its tones were low and sweet,
And were a soothing balm,
To all my grief.

To set my cheeks aglow,
And make my blood
Go dancing through my veins
In ecstasy.

But now 'tis hushed,
I put it by, and loath,
I take a sad farewell,
To all the joys that once
It gave to me.