Classic Poem

To those on whom Thy hand hath laid the weight
Of song's sad gift—be merciful, O God!
Ah! theirs it is to count the wistful hours
Which fill the gaping void of lonely night;
Waking while others sleep, uncomforted
By loving voice or outstretched friendly hand;
Listening the swell of life's unwearied tide
Surge through the anxious chambers of the heart;
Eying the painful dark, whose yielding folds
Half hide the forms that airily go by,
Upon their unknown noiseless pilgrimage;
By strange care haunted, lest some vision pass,
All unregarded, to return no more;
Hearking the silence, lest some message fall
In vain, unheard, on slumber's heedless ear;
Wakeful and watchful, toiling, not for gold—
But for the harvesTof the spirit's field,
Which waves unseen by all eyes save their own.
Such fate is theirs, on whom thy hand hath laid
Life's sweetest, saddest burden—song's dear gift.