---
title: Improvement Era
description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930.
authors:
  - H., E.
collections:
  - periodicals
tags:
  - magazine
  - improvement-era
periodical: Improvement Era
volume: 2
number: 6
published: 1899-04
publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations
publisher_place: Salt Lake City
language: en
type: magazine
reference: 'H., E., "A Song to Sorrow: A Poem," *Improvement Era* 2, no. 6 (April 1899): 434.'
source:
  url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera26unse
  transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers.
  identifier: improvementera26unse
start_page: 434
end_page: 434
rights:
  status: public-domain
  basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1899-04)
  source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera26unse
  publication_year: 1899
  note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1899, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright.
---

# A Song to Sorrow: A Poem

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434                       IMPROVEMENT ERA.

on the other side there are grave questions to be considered. The
American people need time to solve the question. That time comes
to us in what is now announced as the policy of temporary occupation.  Every day that we remain in Cuba will make it more difficult
for us to withdraw.      So, too, with the Philippines;    how shall it be?
Shall "we   hand the islands over to England?          Shall we surrender
them to the insurgents to be picked up by Germany or Russia? The
question would seem to be, not so much whether we are to keep
the Philippines, as how we could get rid of them.

                          A SONG TO SORROW.

             Sleep, Sorrow, sleep; the Earth is all too bright
               Today to heed thy voice, though thou shouldst cry
             From dawn till dusk.    With brave persistency.
               Behold, yon breeze-bent beech leaves keep the lights
             They pilfered from the Sun. Joy claims the right
               To sing today, his instrument, the thrush.
             Who sweetly pipes, where hyacinths grow lush
               Below close hazels, flitting out of sight.

             So sleep, pale Sorrow, let thy grudging face
               No more upbraid me with forgetfulness;
             Sleep, and content thee, since this little place
               I yield to Spring, amid the mournfulness

             That fills my heart, waking, thou shalt not trace;
               Nor, in thy kingdom, find one shadow less.
                                                                  E. H.