When the day is at its dimmest
And the air is wild with snow,
And the city s at its grimmest
In mine eyes there is a glow. . . .
When the day is at its brightest
And the city is a dream,
And my heart is at its lightest,
In mine eyes there is a gleam;
For I'm thinking, O I'm thinking,
Of an old worn sugar-mill
Where the southern sun is sinking––
Gold and crimson––o'er the hill;
And I hear the toilers talking
As they shoulder pick and hoe,
And I watch their steady walking
To the quiet plain below.
O! I see the white stream dashing
Gay and reckless through the brake,
O'er the root-entwined rocks washing
Swiftly, madly to the lake;
O! I hear the waters falling,
Flowing, falling, flowing free,
And the sound of voices calling
O'er the billows of the sea.