I SORROWED that the golden day was dead,

Its light no more the country-side adorning;

But whilst I grieved, behold the east grew red

With Morning.

I sighed that merry Spring was forced to go,

And doff the wreaths that did so well become her ;

But whilst I murmured at her absence-lo

‘Twas Summer.

I mourned because the daffodils were killed

By burning skies that scorched my early posies;

But while for these I pined, my hands were filled

With roses.

Half broken-hearted I bewailed the end

Of friendship, than which none had once seemed nearer;

But whilst I wept I found a closer friend

And dearer.

THUS I learned old pleasures are estranged,

Only that something better may be given – 

Until, at last, we find this earth exchanged

For Heaven.