html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }The warm sunshine streameth
O'er valley and hill,
And brightly it gleameth
On river and rill.
The grain waxeth golden
In many a field,
And soon to the reaper
Its fullness will yield.
The ring of the scythe
In the hay-field is heard,
And afar sounds the call
Of the red-winged black bird.
Lambs sport on the hillside,
And down in the mead;
Where the brook murmurs music,
Cows lazily feed.
Glad voices of children
On light winds are borne,
And the heart of all nature
Beats gladly this morn.
But what does it matter,
This fullness of earth?
And what do I care for
These voices of mirth?
For the hand of the Chastener
Upon me is lain,
And my young heart is pierced
With arrows of pain.
Earth's beauty, once pleasing,
Now grieveth me sore,
Since the eyes so beloved
Shall view it no more.
The song of the bird
In the neighboring tree
Makes me wish he were chanting
A requiem for me.
And I mourn that the flowers,
Whose bright banners wave,
Do not breathe their perfume
O'er me in my grave.
Ah! wherefore can earth
Be so smiling and gay,
While a shadow so dark
On my spirit doth lay?
July 1, 1870.