 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
[The house is dark and dreary]
The house is dark and dreary,
And my heart is full of gloom;
But out of doors, in the summer air,
The sun is warm, the sky is fair,
And the flowers are still in bloom.
And my heart is full of gloom;
But out of doors, in the summer air,
The sun is warm, the sky is fair,
And the flowers are still in bloom.
A moment ago in the garden
I scattered the shining dew:
The wind was soft in the swaying trees,
The morning-glories were full of bees,
And straight in my face they flew.
I scattered the shining dew:
The wind was soft in the swaying trees,
The morning-glories were full of bees,
And straight in my face they flew.
Yet I left them unmolested,
Draining their honey-wine,
And entered the weary house again,
To sit, as now, by a bed of pain,
With a fevered hand in mine.
Draining their honey-wine,
And entered the weary house again,
To sit, as now, by a bed of pain,
With a fevered hand in mine.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |