Classic Poem

Tears are not always fruitful; their hot drops
Sometimes but scorch the cheek and dim the eye;
Despairing murmurs over blackened hopes,
Not the meek spirit's calm and chastened cry.

Oh, better not to weep than weep amiss;
For hard it is to learn to weep aright, —
To weep wise tears, the tears that heal and bless,
The tears which their own bitterness requite.

Oh, better not to grieve than waste our woe,
To fling away the spirit's finest gold,
To lose, not gain, by sorrow; to overflow
The sacred channels which true sadness hold.

To shed our tears as trees their blossoms shed,
Not all at random, but to make sure way
For fruit in season, when the bloom lies dead
On the chill earth, the victim of decay; —

This is to use the grief that God has sent,
To read the lesson, and to learn the love,
To sound the depths of saddest chastisement,
To pluck on earth the fruit of realms above

Weep not too fondly, lest the cherished grief
Should into vain, self-pitying weakness turn;
Weep not too long, but seek divine relief;
Weep not too fiercely, lest the fierceness burn.

Husband your tears; if lavished, they become
Like waters that inundate and destroy;
For active, self-denying days leave room,
So shall you sow in tears, and reap in joy.

It is not tears but teaching we should seek;
The tears we need are genial as the shower;
They mould the being while they stain the cheek
Freshening the spirit into life and power.

Move on, and murmur not; a warrior thou;
Is this a day for idle tears and sighs?
Buckle thine armour, grasp thy sword and bow,
Fight the good fight of faith, and win the prize.