Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;—
Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam;
Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream.
Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide
In restful beauty on the restless tide,
Asking not where the eager waters glide.
Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below
To the high heavens soar and vanish so—
Alas! mine cannot follow where they go.
Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high
Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try
And sing with them as they flit singing by.
Her sorrows—she has none her heart will own;
The air is silent when the birds have flown;
But the poor stream still sings the song, alone.