I look on the chestnut blossomAs it points to the cloudless sky;On the daisy's golden bosom,And the hyacinth's deep blue eye.I see the lime tree flingingIts delicate green arms out;The fragrant jasmine clinging,And the woodbine running about.The lilac hiding the palingWith clusters of purple and white;And the graceful laburnum trailingIts tresses of radiant light.But for me the garlanded bowersHave lost their rainbow hue;I look on the fields and flowers,But not as I used to do.
I hear the bird-boy's rattleChime in with the cawing rook;I hear the low of the cattle,And the plash of the rippling brook:I hear the shepherd singing,And the bleat of the sportive lamb;I hear the loud flail swinging,And the barn-door's creaking slam.I hear the swallows dartingLike arrows, in chase of the fly;And the tawny leveret starting,At play in the copse just by.I hear the broad flags quiver,Where the wind and tide rush through;I listen to mill-wheel and river,But not as I used to do.
I hear the blackbird tellingHis love-tale to his mate;And the merry skylark swellingThe choir at "heaven's gate."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 lingersWhere shadows of clover-heads fall;And the wind, with leaf-tipp'd fingers,Is playing in concert with all.I know the music that gushesIs melody, sweet and true;And I listen to zephyrs and thrushes,But not as I used to do.
No more can my footsteps wanderThrough woodlands, loved and dear;I gaze on the hill-tops yonderThrough the mist of a hopeless tear.My spirit is worn and wearyWith 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.
