Classic Poem

A strange and a wonderful thing is our mortal life!
Strange in its troubled joy, in its secret strife;
Strange in its helpless groping for hidden light,
With each step forward only a step in the night.

Hope is a siren that lures with a deceitful smile,
Warbles bewitching strains with her lips of guile,
Sings of to-morrow's pleasure, to-morrow's gain;
But the gain oft proves but loss, and the pleasure pain,

Caught is many a foot in a silken snare;
Ploughed is many a heart by a golden share;
Many a harvest of pain is in pleasure sown,
Watered by secret tears and in silence mown.

A curse may lurk in the palm of a soft whit hand;
Many a life is wrecked on a gleaming strand.
Fair is the Danger Isle, with her emerald shore;
But the ship that treads her rocks returns no more.

Fair is the sail that floats o'er a rippling sea;
Sweet is love's thrilling strain, sung tenderly;
But dire the wreck that parts on the pitiless wave,
And the sad song that is sung at an open grave.

Bright is many a morn that soon clouds o'er;
Dark is the sullen noon, with its angry roar;
Dark is the sullen noon, and the night is black;
And our stricken treasures lie in the lightning's track.

Vainly we seek to pierce the dark Unknown;
Vainly implore of Silence an answering tone;
Vainly we ask of Fate her scroll to lend;
One thing only is sure — that death is not the end.