[Next year, in] The Literature of America and our favorite authors containing the lives of our noted American and favorite English authors |
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 | [Next year, in] The Literature of America and our favorite authors |  |
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NEXT YEAR.
The lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the sun is rising o'er the dark blue hills;
But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills.
Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes:
Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: 'tis but the wind's low sighs.
But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills.
Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes:
Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: 'tis but the wind's low sighs.
I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair;
And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;
But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love—
More lofty than the skies that bend and brighter e'er us, more constant than the dove.
And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;
But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love—
More lofty than the skies that bend and brighter e'er us, more constant than the dove.
She walks no more beside me in the morning; she meets me not on any summer eve;
But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!”
Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;
But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.
But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!”
Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;
But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.
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