TO J. R. BARRICK.
121
The flowers still blow as in my childhood's years,
The sunset hangs as lovely on the sky,
And the dear moon wakes still the happy tears
Her pale face wakened in the years gone by.
The sunset hangs as lovely on the sky,
And the dear moon wakes still the happy tears
Her pale face wakened in the years gone by.
And earth is brighter still, that souls like thine
Are sent by Heaven beneath the skies, to give
To cold realities a tinge divine,
And make it a sweet luxury to live.
Such spirits lend a deep ideal glow
To wave, to wildwood, rainbow, star and flower,
Charming from human life the shades of woe
By the strong spell of their mysterious power.
Are sent by Heaven beneath the skies, to give
To cold realities a tinge divine,
And make it a sweet luxury to live.
Such spirits lend a deep ideal glow
To wave, to wildwood, rainbow, star and flower,
Charming from human life the shades of woe
By the strong spell of their mysterious power.
And thou hast stolen even from this dull,
Cold heart of mine, one-half its weight of pain,
And made existence almost beautiful
By the strange magic of thy heavenly strain.
Lured by thy tones, my weeping spirit turns
From all earth's cares, its bitterness and strife,
And, leaning on thy noble spirit, learns
To taste the glorious ecstasies of life.
Cold heart of mine, one-half its weight of pain,
And made existence almost beautiful
By the strange magic of thy heavenly strain.
Lured by thy tones, my weeping spirit turns
From all earth's cares, its bitterness and strife,
And, leaning on thy noble spirit, learns
To taste the glorious ecstasies of life.
