POEMS.
41
Weeks and months so long and dreary
I had lain upon my bed,
Stricken with a mortal sickness,
And an aching heart and head.
For the beauty of the summer
Was to me an idle tale,
Never more for me would blossom
The sweet lilies of the vale.
Never more the sunny meadows
Decked with buttercups of gold,
Where the trembling wind flower bloometh
With her blossoms manifold.
Never more the voice of waters,
And the beauty of their song,
Charm my spirit into gladness
With their measure deep and strong.
For the heavy hand of sickness
Lay upon me day and night,
I was very sad and weary,
Longing for eternal light.
So I turned me on the pillow,
Sighing, "Lord, how long, how long
Will it be until Thy summons
Heals and makes me well and strong?"
When I heard a gentle footstep
And the fluttering of wings,
And a shining Angel standing
Meekly from the King of kings!
Very sorrowful His features,
I had lain upon my bed,
Stricken with a mortal sickness,
And an aching heart and head.
For the beauty of the summer
Was to me an idle tale,
Never more for me would blossom
The sweet lilies of the vale.
Never more the sunny meadows
Decked with buttercups of gold,
Where the trembling wind flower bloometh
With her blossoms manifold.
Never more the voice of waters,
And the beauty of their song,
Charm my spirit into gladness
With their measure deep and strong.
For the heavy hand of sickness
Lay upon me day and night,
I was very sad and weary,
Longing for eternal light.
So I turned me on the pillow,
Sighing, "Lord, how long, how long
Will it be until Thy summons
Heals and makes me well and strong?"
When I heard a gentle footstep
And the fluttering of wings,
And a shining Angel standing
Meekly from the King of kings!
Very sorrowful His features,
