 | Poems And Songs |  |
100
TO MY HEART.
The sweet flower-time is coming, heart,
With longer and brighter day;
The bees will soon be humming, heart,
A bass to the blackbird's lay.
Blue-bells will bloom in the dells of broom,
And gowans on every lea;
When Nature is giddy with joy, my heart,
She'll look for a note from thee.
With longer and brighter day;
The bees will soon be humming, heart,
A bass to the blackbird's lay.
Blue-bells will bloom in the dells of broom,
And gowans on every lea;
When Nature is giddy with joy, my heart,
She'll look for a note from thee.
Where yonder briars are clinging, heart,
Soon roses will gaily wave;
While infant oaks are springing, heart,
O'er the acorn's sylvan grave.
When the buoyant lark, on its viewless bark,
Will sail o'er the ryegrass sea—
When woodlands are ringing with joy, my heart,
Why should there be grief for thee?
Soon roses will gaily wave;
While infant oaks are springing, heart,
O'er the acorn's sylvan grave.
When the buoyant lark, on its viewless bark,
Will sail o'er the ryegrass sea—
When woodlands are ringing with joy, my heart,
Why should there be grief for thee?
101
Soon 'mong the leafless bushes, heart,
The birds will their homes prepare,
And yon stream that darkly rushes, heart,
Its happiest looks will wear.
When the bare black heath, in the summer's breath,
In purple and green shall glow—
When the stranger bird is heard, my heart,
Thy welcome in song must flow.
The birds will their homes prepare,
And yon stream that darkly rushes, heart,
Its happiest looks will wear.
When the bare black heath, in the summer's breath,
In purple and green shall glow—
When the stranger bird is heard, my heart,
Thy welcome in song must flow.
Away with this gloom, unholy heart,
Hope's halo must round thee shine;
Despair is the child of Folly, heart,
And must not be friend of thine.
Yon snowy cloud is cold Winter's shroud,
Soon tombed in the north he'll be;
The spring is the season of hope, my heart,
And so let it be for thee.
Hope's halo must round thee shine;
Despair is the child of Folly, heart,
And must not be friend of thine.
Yon snowy cloud is cold Winter's shroud,
Soon tombed in the north he'll be;
The spring is the season of hope, my heart,
And so let it be for thee.
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