Classic Poem

How often I've heard it spoken, down here in the sordid strife,
From a heart grown weary, or broken: " I wish I could write my life! "
O hearts where the iron has bitten, O weary husbands and wives,
I tell you your lives are written, with millions and millions of lives.

There are thousands of sullen people — to make up the Human Whole —
Who were born without a soul and shall die without a soul;
But these are as nothing — What matters? For only the soul survives:
I tell you your life is written with millions and millions of lives.

As the life of an author, or poet, however he fails or shines
In the world, to the men who know it, is written between the lines.
O you, on the rocks, hard smitten! shall know, when the hour arrives,
That the wrongs of your lives are written with millions and millions of lives.

How many a worn-out woman cries in the depth of her night,
Craving for something human: " I wish to God I could write! "
But, embittered elder daughters, and suffering mothers and wives,
I tell you your wrongs are noted with millions and millions of " lives " .

How often I've heard it spoken, down there in the sordid strife,
From a heart that is hardened, or broken: " I wish I could write my life! "
O hearts over-laden and lone, O hopeless husbands and wives,
I tell you your lives are known to thousands and thousands of lives.