Classic Poem

There was a garden planned in Spring's young days,
Then, Summer held it in her bounteous hand;
And many wandered through its blooming ways;
But ne'er the one for whom the work was planned.
And it was vainly done —
For what are many, if we lack the one?

There was a song that lived within the heart
Long time — and then on Music's wing it strayed!
All sing it now, all praise its artless art;
But ne'er the one for whom the song was made.
And it was vainly done —
For what are many, if we lack the one?