Classic Poem

I.

Sorrow , sorrow, bring it green!
True tears make the grass to grow;
And the grief of the good, I ween,
Is grateful to him that sleeps below.
Strew sweet flowers, free of blight —
Blossoms gathered in the dew:
Should they wither before night,
Flowers and blossoms bring anew.

II.

Sorrow, sorrow, speed away
To our angler's quiet mound,
With the old pilgrim, twilight grey,
Enter thou on the holy ground;
There he sleeps, whose heart was twined
With wild stream and wandering burn,
Wooer of the western wind!
Watcher of the April morn!

III.

Sorrow at the poor man's hearth!
Sorrow in the hall of pride!
Honour waits at the grave of worth
And high and low stand side by side.
Brother angler! slumber on,
Haply thou shalt wave the wand,
When the tide of time is gone,
In some far and happy land.