Classic Poem

The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are droning.
What so sad as a bank of mist that cannot weep into rain?
A little, old man comes down the road where you and I are moaning;
A little, old man who sings a song and here is the rune's refrain:
Somewhere, sometime the glory;
Somewhere the sun.
I'll read me on to the end of the story:
God's will be done.

O little, old man you shame me; for the weak oft shame the strong.
The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are crying.
What so sad as a pair of lips that cannot break into song;
And learn so long as we keep a song Hope shall know no dying?

Somewhere, sometime the glory; let me but keep this shard,
Torn from the crumbling mountain peaks of our philosophies.
Bring me hither the music man, the brother of the bard,
And he shall mate it with music from the lips of seven seas.
Somewhere, sometime the glory;
Somewhere the sun.
I'll read me on to the end of the story:
God's will be done.