The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught
With all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved;
He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught...
Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.
The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilled
With all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept;
He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled...
Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.