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The colouring of happiness.
But yesterday, and life seemed tented round
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud,
And there were many, but in flitting past
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the Heaven-bound hours.
But oh! to-day
Lie all harmonious and lovely things
Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems
As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven!
My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure—
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud,
And there were many, but in flitting past
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the Heaven-bound hours.
But oh! to-day
Lie all harmonious and lovely things
Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems
As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven!
My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure—
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.
Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart,
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet,
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet,
