The hills are tipped with sunshine, while I walk In shadows dim and cold: The unawakened rose sleeps on her stalk In a bud's fold. Until the sun flood all the world with gold. The hills are crowned with glory, and the glow Flows widening down apace: Unto the sunny hill-tops I, set low, Lift a tired face, ''" Ah happy rose, content to wait for grace! How tired a face, how tired a brain, A heart I lift, who long For something never felt but still desired; Sunshine and song, Song where the choirs of sunny heaven stand choired. |