Poetry Archives

Misery is my lot,
  Poverty and pain;
Ill was I begot,
  Ill must I remain;
Yet the wretched days
  One sweet comfort bring,
When God whispering says,
  “Sing, O singer, sing!”

Chariots rumble by,
  Splashing me with mud;
Insolence see I
  Fawn to royal blood;
Solace have I then
  From each galling sting
In that voice again,—
  “Sing, O singer, sing!”

Cowardly at heart,
  I am forced to play
A degraded part
  For its paltry pay;
Freedom is a prize
  For no starving thing;
Yet that small voice cries,
  “Sing, O singer, sing!”

I was young, but now,
  When I’m old and gray,
Love—I know not how
  Or why—hath sped away;
Still, in winter days
  As in hours of spring,
Still a whisper says,
 “Sing, O singer, sing!”

Ah, too well I know
  Song’s my only friend!
Patiently I’ll go
  Singing to the end;
Comrades, to your wine!
  Let your glasses ring!
Lo, that voice divine
  Whispers, “Sing, oh, sing!”