  Clouds of sorrow cannot hide Gleams of sunshine gilding hours Of happy memory, sweet as flowers Ever blooming by the wayside, Thronged with thorn and thistle. Reapers binding sheaves of plenty, Think the golden dreams of twenty Thrill them deepest; and the whistle Of some lone love-dreaming bird In the meadow, wakes to memory Notes now hushed, but sweeter than the Ear of mortal ever heard. 'Neath the cliffs near by the river Long cymes of honey-suckle grew, Odorous in the air; and the violet, too, Entangling with the phlox, and ever Entessellated beds of petal'd mosaic Stretching out before us, rich As the drapery of a dream in which The toil of life was not prosaic. Neither can the hungry ear Enfashion music softer, sweeter, Drawn from lyre, than the meter— Rippling cascade trickling near. |
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