I look on the chestnut blossom As it points to the cloudless sky; On the daisy's golden bosom, And the hyacinth's deep blue eye. I see the lime tree flinging Its delicate green arms out; The fragrant jasmine clinging, And the woodbine running about. The lilac hiding the paling With clusters of purple and white; And the graceful laburnum trailing Its tresses of radiant light. But for me the garlanded bowers Have lost their rainbow hue; I look on the fields and flowers, But not as I used to do.
I hear the bird-boy's rattle Chime 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 darting Like 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 telling His love-tale to his mate; And the merry skylark swelling The 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 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.
