Classic Poem

Myriad singers pour their treasures
Into wearied ears—
Sweet, uncertain, minor measures,
Trembling doubts and fears.

Why repeat these strains of sadness,
Which but feed our fears?
Are there no clear notes of gladness
Straying down the years?

Sing of Sorrow? All men know it.
Share with them their tears;
Then—ah! then, forget not, poet—
Sing the Hope that cheers.