Though the winds be dank,
  And the sky be sober,
     And the grieving Day
     In a mantle gray
  Hath let her waiting maiden robe her,—
     All the fields along
     I can hear the song
Of the meadow lark,
     As she flits and flutters,
     And laughs at the thunder when it mutters.
     O happy bird, of heart most gay
     To sing when skies are gray!

When the clouds are full,
  And the tempest master
     Lets the loud winds sweep
     From his bosom deep
  Like heralds of some dire disaster,
     Then the heart alone
     To itself makes moan;
And the songs come slow,
     While the tears fall fleeter,
     And silence than song by far seems sweeter.
     Oh, few are they along the way
     Who sing when skies are gray!

This work was published before January 1, 1925, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.