Classic Poem

You have days, yes, weeks of loneliness that never seem to end,
When you're sure the world's against you, and you haven't got a friend;
You are weary and discouraged, and you wish the fight was o'er,
For your heart is almost bursting, and your soul is sick and sore.

There's no music in the billows, there's no balm upon the breeze;
There's no gladness in the sunlight — only sadness in the trees!
Life has grown to be a burden that you can no longer bear,
Or an ever-changing puzzle that you give up in despair.

Then it is some fellow tells you that he's always been your friend;
Swears you know it — that he's proved it on occasions without end!
That once more he's going to do so — if you'll never breathe a word —
Then repeats some nasty gossip that about you he has heard!

Lord preserve us, or we perish! We can't stand it very long!
We are growing weak and weaker, and the pressure's growing strong!
Order up thy mightiest cannons, and the trembling walls defend,
For they're tottering 'neath the onslaughts of the never-failing friend.