NOT AS I USED TO DO.
The cuckoo, away in the thicket,
Is giving his two old notes;
And the pet doves hung by the wicket,
Are talking with ruffled throats.
The honey-bee hums as he lingers
Where shadows of clover-heads fall;
And the wind, with leaf-tipp'd fingers,
Is playing in concert with all.
I know the music that gushes
Is melody, sweet and true;
And I listen to zephyrs and thrushes,
But not as I used to do.
Is giving his two old notes;
And the pet doves hung by the wicket,
Are talking with ruffled throats.
The honey-bee hums as he lingers
Where shadows of clover-heads fall;
And the wind, with leaf-tipp'd fingers,
Is playing in concert with all.
I know the music that gushes
Is melody, sweet and true;
And I listen to zephyrs and thrushes,
But not as I used to do.
No more can my footsteps wander
Through woodlands, loved and dear;
I gaze on the hill-tops yonder
Through the mist of a hopeless tear.
My spirit is worn and weary
With waiting for health and rest;
My long, long night is dreary,
And my summer day unblest.
My suffering darkens the moonlight,
My anguish embitters the balm;
My loneliness weeps in the moonlight,
And sighs in the evening calm.
Oh that suffering's mournful story,
Must be wofully long and true;
When it finds me noting God's glory,
But not as I used to do.
Through woodlands, loved and dear;
I gaze on the hill-tops yonder
Through the mist of a hopeless tear.
My spirit is worn and weary
With waiting for health and rest;
My long, long night is dreary,
And my summer day unblest.
My suffering darkens the moonlight,
My anguish embitters the balm;
My loneliness weeps in the moonlight,
And sighs in the evening calm.
Oh that suffering's mournful story,
Must be wofully long and true;
When it finds me noting God's glory,
But not as I used to do.
404
