ALL day the stormy wind has blown From off the dark and rainy sea; No bird has past the window flown, The only song has been the moan The wind made in the willow-tree. This is the summer's burial time; She died when dropped the earliest leaves, And, cold upon her rosy prime, Fell direful autumn's frosty rime, — Yet I am not as one that grieves; For well I know o'er sunny seas The bluebird waits for April skies; And at the roots of forest trees The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, And violets hide their azure eyes. O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown Beside some golden summer's bier, — Take heart! Thy birds are only flown, Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, To greet thee in immortal year! |