Classic Poem

What dost thou seek in the night's deep mystery,
Dreamer of dreams, and singer of songs?
Dost thou believe the world's sad history
Will cease from its lengthening record of sorrow,
Will put from itself its grave garment of wrongs,
Will bask in the light of the sun-mastered morrow,
Because thy keen music dissevers the air,
And all the four winds thy sweet messages bear?

Nay, thou dost say the songs that have gladdened thee
Sprang from thy heart like young birds from their nest,
Stilled with their murmurs the woes which have saddened thee,
Rescued thy soul from thy passion's sharp peril,
Hushed into calm thy tumultuous breast;
And shall the sweet realm of thy singing prove sterile,
Now thou hast built round the listening heart
A land in whose seasons no winter has part?

Surely with thee, O compassionate singer of songs,
With thee all is well, O dreamer of dreams;
What though the day, though the night, be the bringer of wrongs,
Art thou not sovereign of mystical regions,
Art thou not sovereign of the land which gleams
With the light of pure Hope's innumerous legions?
Wherefore lead, oh, lead us, to thy realm where spring,
Joy, and clear wisdom abide and sing.