Classic Poem

When the aching soul is holden
In the darkness that enshrouds,
Not a gleam of sunshine golden—
Not a rainbow in the clouds.
Oh, the anguish! oh, the sorrow,
Of the burden borne alone,
Of the grief for which no morrow
Gives a promise to atone!

When we can our wounds discover,
All our heart-aches and our pain,
Unto friend or unto lover,
'Tis like sunshine 'midst the rain,
And the words so kindly spoken,
And the warmly beaming eye,
Turn our sorrow to a token
Of a love that cannot die.

'Tis the sigh that comes unbidden
From the soul by anguish torn;
'Tis the grief that's deeply hidden,
When the mask of smiles is worn;
'Tis the silent pain that shatters,
When the soul must make each flower
That upon the grave she scatters
Seem to grace a festal bower.