WHEN all the sky is pure My soul takes flight, Serene and sure, Upward -- till at the height She weighs her wings, And sings. But when the heaven is black, And west-winds sigh, Beat back, beat back, She has no strength to try The drifting rain Again. So cheaply baffled! see! The field is bare -- Behold a tree -- Is't not enough? Sit there, Thou foolish thing, And sing! |