SPRING MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN 343
The fountains are all gushing, just filled with showers of rain ; But the spring my life that comforted will never flow again. My flower that blossomed all the year last winter dropped
away, And withers now within the grave ; O why art thou so gay ? The hand that hath caressed thee, that hath fed thee o'er and
o'er, Lies stiff and cold beneath the mould ; thy mistress comes no
more. She loved thee, too, and, hadst thou died, she would have
wept for thee ; Then why dost thou, so thoughtless now, chirrup thus merrily }
The summer shall come back again, the valleys shall grow gay, And the vine shall stoop and lowly droop to mingle with the
spray. The oriole in the branching elm shall waken me from slumber. And all the trees shall fill the breeze with voices without
number ; And from his bed, all rosy red, the sun shall rise at morn. And as of old shall paint with gold our field of waving corn ; And, when above in shady grove the plaintive wood-thrush
sings. O'er lawn and lake his voice shall wake a host of happy things. But what delight in sound or sight can nature have for me. To whom the very grasshopper a burden seems to be ?
Then, lost one, when red twilight melts to the dull gray of eve.
The whippoorwill shall wail again, and seem for thee to grieve.
Thy mournful shade will come, sweet maid, with the declining light,
And the ticking clock thy step will mock through all the lone- some night.
Thy voice will whisper in the breeze, will murmur in the rain ;
Earth will seem full of thee, but thou wilt never come again.
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