All day the stormy wind has blown
From off the dark and rainy sea;
No bird has past the window flown,
The only song has been the moan
The wind made in the willow-tree.
This is the summer's burial time;
She died when dropped the earliest leaves,
And, cold upon her rosy prime,
Fell direful autumn's frosty rime,—
Yet I am not as one that grieves;
For well I know o'er sunny seas
The bluebird waits for April skies;
And at the roots of forest trees
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease,
And violets hide their azure eyes.
O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown
Beside some golden summer's bier,—
Take heart! Thy birds are only flown,
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown,
To greet thee in the immortal year!