Poems (Schiller)/An idyl

by Rebecca Jane Schiller

AN IDYL [To Miss Florence S. Van Fossen.]

The warm sunshine streameth
 O'er valley and hill,
And brightly it gleameth
 On river and rill.
The grain waxeth golden
 In many a field,
And soon to the reaper
 Its fullness will yield.
The ring of the scythe
 In the hay-field is heard,
And afar sounds the call
 Of the red-winged black bird.
Lambs sport on the hillside,
 And down in the mead;
Where the brook murmurs music,
 Cows lazily feed.
Glad voices of children
 On light winds are borne,
And the heart of all nature
 Beats gladly this morn.
But what does it matter,
 This fullness of earth?
And what do I care for
 These voices of mirth?
For the hand of the Chastener
 Upon me is lain,
And my young heart is pierced
 With arrows of pain.
Earth's beauty, once pleasing,
 Now grieveth me sore,
Since the eyes so beloved
 Shall view it no more.
The song of the bird
 In the neighboring tree
Makes me wish he were chanting
 A requiem for me.
And I mourn that the flowers,
 Whose bright banners wave,
Do not breathe their perfume
 O'er me in my grave.
Ah! wherefore can earth
 Be so smiling and gay,
While a shadow so dark
 On my spirit doth lay?
July 1, 1870.