Classic Poem

Hope ! — is he for ever glad?
Sorrow! — is she always sad?
(Sorrow — is not that her name,
Who hath won so sad a fame?)
Doth he ever smiling look?
Doth she gaze, as on a book,
Always on the pictured past,
While her eyes are flowing fast?
Sit by me! — sit by me!
Let us watch, and we shall see
If such changeless things can be,
Where all is mutability.

So, glad Spirit, as I speak,
Thou hast tears on thy young cheek,
Like the fresh dew on the rose!
And sweet Sorrow (though she knows
She must turn to tears again,)
Smileth in a pause of pain.
Thus each telleth, in sweet guise,
That Grief must leave the saddest eyes;
That even Hope itself must fly,
With a sob and with a sigh;
But that each returneth soon,
As constant as the moon!