Page:Poems Cook.djvu/346

The golden sun was flashing out,
 And the reaper tied the sheaf;
The bee went heavily about,
And the fine old tree, so tall and stout,
 Moved not its topmost leaf.

A blackbird, perched on that old tree,
 Kept whistling clear and loud;
Its little heart, brimful of glee,
Seemed running o'er with joy, to be
 In a spot without a cloud.

All things were beautiful and still,
 In the flush of gladsome light;
And the bird with many a gushing trill,
Seemed pouring thanks to the power and will
 That made its home so bright.

But ere another hour was past,
 The thunder-scowl was round;
The chilling rain poured cold and fast,
And the old tree bent in the sudden blast,
 With a dull and moaning sound.

The flowers fell in their deluged bed,
 Their glory stained with clay;
The corn laid down, and the reapers fled,
The hardiest pilgrim hid his head,
 And gloom was over the day.

But there was the blackbird still in the tree,
 With its paean not yet done;
It carolled away in its earnest glee,
As though it were sure, that God must be
 In the shadow as well as the sun.

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