  There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, There is ever a something sings alway: There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering carelessly. There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair; There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— There is ever a song somewhere, my dear— There is ever a song somewhere! There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black or the midday blue: The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through; The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere: But whether the sun or the rain or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. —James Whitcomb Riley. By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Copyright, 1898. |
|
