Classic Poem

There's a song to be sung in the dying
Still hour of the twilight, and only
To such as are hopeless and lonely,
To such as are sad and heart-sore —
A song to be sung low and sweetly
To such as have yielded completely
To doleful despair — to those lying
Forlorn, with a future no more.

'Tis a song in whose magical measure
Must flow dulcet solace for broken
And love-haunted spirits awoke in
The desolate realm of dead years
'Mid the ruins of dreams — a song singing
Of heaven over hell and the springing
Of hope from the ashes of pleasure
And joy from the anguish of tears.

It must not be sung here; but when slowly
Your last sun declines, leaving splendid
The highway to God where have wended
The lost of your life, you may hear
From some cloud-cliff empurpled a song that
Your sorrow had longed for so long that
You'll sink in a rapture too holy
For all the sweet strength of a tear.