Classic Poem

“I cannot sing!” the grieving heartharp sighed;
“The breeze that touched me lives beyond the foam.”
A rough wind struck it, and its voice replied
In sweeter music than it made at home.

O Sorrow, Sister Sorrow, thou dost give
A richer tone to poets when they cross,
To seek Eurydice, from where joys live,
And make them godlike through thy gift of loss.