THE POET’S REWARD
A poor, neglected poet once there lived,
Who to the souls of millions sang;
He cheered their hearts and eased their restless minds
With ne’er discordant note nor twang.
Yet little of this world’s great goods he asked,
And littler still thereof did gain.
He left the world with joy and pleasure filled,
But took its sorrow and its pain.
Yet I do know he labored not in vain,
Though his reward to win was long,—
For God above, in His great charity,
Did make His angels sing his song.