Classic Poem

The world is ours again —
Ours is the heavenly rout —
For, as the healing rain
Freshens the rose,
Sadness has made us whole
After the bitter drought,
And the despairing soul
Blossoms and glows.
Sing, heart, sing, lips, sing, promise of the morrow,
Love is not Love that has not tasted sorrow.

All, all is ours again —
The hour with wonder fraught —
The passions near to pain
We feel anew;
For lovers need the years
Of tender speech and thought,
But Love itself needs tears
And suffering too.

Sing, heart, sing, lips, sing, promise of the morrow,
Love is not Love that has not tasted sorrow.

The world is ours again —
The world and its belief;
The purpose is made plain
Below, above.
It only needed this —
This miracle of grief —
To make our wayward bliss
A perfect Love.

Sing, heart, sing, lips, sing, promise of the morrow,
Love is not Love that has not tasted sorrow.