  The summer brook flows in the bed, The winter torrent tore asunder; The skylark's gentle wings are spread Where walk the lightning and the thunder; And thus you'll find the sternest soul The gayest tenderness concealing, And minds that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling. Then, maiden! start not from the hand The pulse beneath may be as bland As evening after day of labour: And, maiden! start not from the brow That thought has knit, and passion darkened— In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, The tenderest tales are often hearkened. Thomas Davis |
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