  THE mavis sang but yesterday A strain that thrilled through autumn’s dearth; He read the music of his lay In light and leaf, and heaven and earth; The wind-flowers by the wayside swung, Words of the music that was sung. In all his song the shade and sun Of earth and heaven seemed to meet; Its joy and sorrow were as one, Its very sadness was but sweet. He sang of summers yet to be; You listened to his song with me. The heart makes sunshine in the rain, Or winter in the midst of May; And though the mavis sings again His self-same song of yesterday, I find no gladness in his tone: To-day I listen here alone. And—even our sunniest moment takes Such shadows of the bliss we knew— To-day his throbbing song awakes But wistful, haunting thoughts of you; Its very sweetness is but sad: You gave it all the joy it had. |
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