Classic Poem

O CASKET of sweet sounds, wherein there lieth
— A sound to lull the weary man to sleep,
— A sound to make the hard and tearless weep,
A sound that every sound on earth defieth,
And only to one hand on earth replieth,
— What time her fingers varied measure keep,
— To drag it wooingly from out the deep
That, softly wooed by others, only sigheth!
If I might win me that remembered strain
— By reverent lifting of thy gleamy lid,
I could forget the sorrowful refrain
— Of all the world shall do — is doing — did.
Pandora's prisoned hope was not more vain.
— The casket's there, the melody is hid.