The Meadow Lark
Though the winds be dank,And the sky be sober,And the grieving DayIn a mantle grayHath let her waiting maiden robe her,—All the fields alongI can hear the songOf the meadow lark,As she flits and flutters,And laughs at the thunder when it mutters.O happy bird, of heart most gayTo sing when skies are gray!
When the clouds are full,And the tempest masterLets the loud winds sweepFrom his bosom deepLike heralds of some dire disaster,Then the heart aloneTo itself makes moan;And the songs come slow,While the tears fall fleeter,And silence than song by far seems sweeter.Oh, few are they along the wayWho sing when skies are gray!