Classic Poem

When our purest delights are nipt in the blossom,
When those we love best are laid low,
When grief plants in secret her thorns in the bosom,
Deserted, " to whom shall we go? "

When error bewilders, and our path becomes dreary,
And tears of despondency flow;
When the whole head is sick, and the whole heart is weary,
Despairing, " to whom shall we go? "

When the sad, thirsty spirit turns from the springs
Of enchantment this life can bestow,
And sighs for another, and flutters its wings,
Impatient, " to whom shall we go? "

O, blest be that light which has parted the clouds,
A path to the pilgrim to show,
That pierces the veil which the future enshrouds,
And shows us, to whom we may go.