Classic Poem

Others are doing the wonderful things,
Theirs are the fingers that touch the strings
That sound so long ere the music dies;
Darlings and pets of their time, they hear
Praises of multitudes, far and near,
And ever their fame before them flies.

Alas! for the Others! how lonely they stand.
Far and apart on the hilltops grand,
We see them plainly against the sky.
God's pity upon them! — there's no retreat
From the world's bold stare and the sun's fierce heat
For the gifted ones who have passed us by.

Others are doing the wonderful things,
Theirs are the fingers that touch the strings
That sound so long ere the music dies;
Darlings and pets of their time, they hear
Praises of multitudes, far and near,
And ever their fame before them flies.

Alas! for the Others! how lonely they stand.
Far and apart on the hilltops grand,
We see them plainly against the sky.
God's pity upon them! — there's no retreat
From the world's bold stare and the sun's fierce heat
For the gifted ones who have passed us by.